


Strings Attached

by PagesofParsley



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Azure Moon - Freeform, Crimson Flower, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Insert, Magical Guitar, Modern Girl in Fodlan, Music, OC, Original Character(s), POV Original Character, POV Original Female Character, Romance, Slow Burn, and definitely AU, but a blend, but not a self insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:13:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23727388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PagesofParsley/pseuds/PagesofParsley
Summary: When a voice from the void transports Piper Pendergast to Fódlan with only a god-blessed guitar, she's more than a little confused. But with the help of newfound friends, Piper might just pick and strum her way to a happy ending. A Fire Emblem Three Houses insert.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg & My Unit | Byleth, Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth, OC & TBD
Comments: 12
Kudos: 27





	1. The Ballad of Fodlan

Everything's dark. Like, really dark. Darker than high school level dark.

I feel around in the inky black, grasping only air. I seem to be floating as well, so I'm gonna go ahead and chalk this one up as a dream. After some experimental breaststrokes, I manage to propel myself through the void. Without any scenery or wind resistance, it's impossible to tell how fast I'm "swimming," but I take up what feels like a leisurely pace. Since this dream is so damn boring, I figure I'll just move around until I wake up.

"Greetings, child." The voice reverberates in all directions, feminine and laden with poise.

OK. Mildly more interesting now. "Let me guess, you're supposed to be God or something, yeah?" Might as well play along.

The voice hums for a moment. "It would be more correct to say I am _a_ god. A god of what, I cannot say."

God of bullshit, most likely. Oh well, my subconscious is an asshole, what's new? "Fantastic. Am I going to receive a revelation now? Do I get to be a prophet? I don't have to wear a robe, do I?"

"I have lost much of my power since coming to this realm," God Lady says, ignoring my undeniable wit. "Thus, I have taken drastic measures to ensure I might return one day to Fódlan."

Fódlan? Is that a Dungeons and Dragons place? "Sounds like a real pickle. Good luck with that."

I try to continue swimming, but my limbs are heavy. Way, way too heavy. "You misunderstand, child." The voice is harsher now, more imperious. "I used almost the last of my power to bring you here, and I shall use what remains to send you to Fódlan in my stead."

Not cool, dream. Not cool. You're fast approaching nightmare territory. "I'd like to wake up now," I say, slapping my cheeks.

"This is no dream, child. Upon your heart, I shall place my Crest. Therefore, as you walk the land of Fódlan, I, too, will walk with you. And one day, when the time is right, your body will belong to me. Finally, I shall have my freedom."

Nah, nah, nah. Fuck that. This is some demon shit right here. "Like hell I'm letting you use me." I look left and right and up and down. "Anytime now, dream. Anytime you wanna wake me up is great."

She laughs, and it _definitely_ sounds demonic. "It would not do to have my vessel destroyed before I can awaken, however. Fódlan is a dangerous place. I bequeath unto you a Holy Relic, one you may find befitting of your skills."

A flash emanates from the darkness, leaving in its wake a possession of mine I know very well—a crimson Fender Stratocaster with a maple fretboard and neck. Is this some kind of joke? God, my brain is fucked up. The guitar lands in my hands, familiar and alien at once. There's… something inside it. A force or energy. Whatever it is, it's scary. I want to let go of the guitar, but my fingers won't unfurl.

"Simply play the instrument as you know how, and the magic I have infused within will activate. There are other secrets it holds that I am sure you will discover in time," Demon God Lady explains, derisive. "I grow sleepy now. Fódlan awaits, child. Go forth and… what do they say in your realm? Ah, yes. _Rock_."

Peels of eerie, chiming laughter echo almost inside my mind. The surrounding air constricts, tugging and squeezing to the point I fear my bones will surely fracture. There's a _pop_ , but it isn't my bones. Blinding daylight floods my vision. I lift an arm to shield against the sun. If I squint through the light, I can make out trees and a wooden watchtower.

This is _such_ bullshit.

My knees buckle, and I promptly faint.

* * *

I wake drooling on a lock of my own hair accompanied by unceremonious bouncing. My face rests against something cool and metallic, and I peel away from it to the sight of a man's armored back. As in, medieval knight looking shit. Furthermore, I seem to be on a horse. A literal, smelly, weirdly bearded horse. Naturally, I scream.

The man starts at my screeching, pulling on the reins and causing his horse to whinny in protest. Having never ridden a damn horse before, I fall and land directly on my face. There's a shout and heavy footsteps as I attempt to rise and spit the dirt from my teeth.

"Dammit," a deep voice hisses, and I feel myself being hauled up. The man from the horse looks me over before running a hand through his sandy undercut. "I should have secured you to the horse better. Ah well. You don't seem to be hurt at least."

I stumble backwards. "Who the hell are you?!" I shout, gesturing wildly in front of me. "Where am I? Am I still dreaming? Where'd that creepy demon god lady go? Oh fuck me, what the FUCK!" Please let this be a dream. Please, please, please.

He frowns, though to be fair that's hardly different from what appears to be his bad case of RBF. "You're going to have to slow down, kid. Maybe breathe a little."

"Don't tell me to slow down! You… You kidnapped me! And brought me to this… this forest?" I pace around, blinking and taking in my surroundings for the first time. We're on a dirt path, maybe just wide enough for a truck. Trees and thick undergrowth line the road. Not far behind us are some more armored guys and a few kids who might be around my age. What are these outfits? Is this… some kind of… renaissance fair slave murder cult thing?

The man rubs a palm over his face. "Kidnapped you? We _saved_ you. Found you unconscious just outside the village as those bandits attacked. None of the villagers recognized you, so we took you with us." He looks positively exasperated explaining.

Village? Who says village? "Who is us? And that's all fine and well, but the last thing I remember was falling asleep at my apartment in Chicago!" I have to get out of here, escape these lunatics. They don't seem to have any guns—wait are those swords?! Axes?! Oh fuck this.

"Look, I don't know what Chi… Chicago is. All I know is we found you, rescued you, and that you should probably be a little more grateful than you are." Another man approaches us, this one tricked out in some big ass plate armor.

His mustache twitches as he speaks. "Captain, what's going on?" He looks me over, oddly jovial. "Sounds like she's a bit fired up!"

"I told you, I'm not… Nevermind." Undercut glares at me. "Our friend here thinks we've kidnapped her."

By now we've caused enough commotion to attract the other members of this little merry band's attention. The kids I saw earlier walk up behind me, joined by a woman a few years older wearing the tackiest tights and booty shorts I have ever seen. Her hair's a weird dark blue-green too. A bare midriff window and billowy coat complete the ensemble. I've worn a lot of stage costumes, but this girl's aesthetic is wack. Creepiest thing about her though? Totally emotionless expression. I suppress a shiver.

I weigh my options. Clearly, these people are insane. Assuming this _isn't_ a dream (it's a real vivid dream if it is), that means I was shanghaied for god knows what nefarious purpose. They had to have drugged me for me to not wake up during all this. Even still, there's no way we're that far outside Chicago. They didn't even bring a car! They're also distracted talking among themselves right now.

I do the logical thing and book it, screaming for help as I run.

After only a few yards, I feel someone plow into my midsection. I flail around helplessly for a moment or two until my arms are pinned to my sides. Craning my neck, I see the freaky woman holding me down, that unnatural blank stare plastered on her face. Fear shoots through my veins as bladed ice.

"Please… Please don't kill me. I'll give you whatever you want! Please, I just wanna go home!" Tears roll unbidden off my cheeks into the dirt. I don't understand any of this. God, why is this happening to me? The woman's eyes widen a fraction.

Undercut places a hand on her shoulder. "Byleth, that's enough," he says firmly. "She's terrified. Let her go so we can maybe calm her down."

'Byleth' relents, and I backpedal along the ground as soon as I'm free. A tree trunk eventually stops me, and I realize my guitar is strapped to my back. I quickly remove it and hold it out by the neck, waving blindly. It's the only weapon I have. But it feels strange in my hands, that same energy from the demon lady dream pulsing within.

Before I can learn more, however, Undercut gently pushes it aside with his boot and crouches down to my level. "No one here is going to harm you. I promise. You look like you've been through a lot. What's your name?" He sounds sincere. I don't trust him at all, though. But I just learned escape is hardly an option. At least like that. If I want to get away, I might have to play nice.

"Piper," I say, cautiously dragging my guitar towards me. "Piper Pendergast."

He nods. "Well, Piper, I'm Jeralt. And that girl there is Byleth." He thumbs at Blank Face. She dips her head to acknowledge the introduction.

"What about him?" I ask, pointing at the smiley man in the big armor.

Jeralt scowls, but I get the sense it isn't about me. "That's Alois, a Knight of Seiros." Alois waves good-naturedly.

I crane my neck to peer around Jeralt at the three colorfully dressed teenagers. "And them?"

He follows my gaze. "Ah, I couldn't tell you their names, but they're students of the Officers Academy at Garreg Mach. That's where we're headed now, actually."

The three of them don't seem to have any issues volunteering the information themselves. Two of them, a blond goody two shoes looking boy and a silver-haired girl bow slightly. The third, an olive-skinned boy with an earring and a shock of messy dark hair, just raises a couple fingers in greeting.

"I am Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus," the blond announces in regal fashion. "It is regrettable that our first meeting should be so strained, Miss Piper Pendergast." Even in this situation, I can't help but think he's an absolute dweeb. Is he roleplaying or something?

The silver-haired girl speaks next. "And I am Edelgard von Hresvelg." She watches me in a much more calculating manner than Dimitri.

"Claude," the remaining one says, flashing a cocky grin. "Don't let those two intimidate you. They blow a lot of hot air."

Edelgard shoots him a scathing glare. "And I suppose being a scheming miscreant is somehow better?"

Claude's smirk only grows, but Dimitri steps in before he can respond. "Now, I believe this is hardly the place for a squabble," he says, giving me a sympathetic glance. "Piper appears confused enough as it is."

Why yes, I am confused. Thank you for noticing, you LARP weirdo. Jeralt shakes his head at their antics and extends his hand. "Let me help you up," he offers.

I wipe my eyes and nose on a sleeve, noticing that whatever I'm wearing isn't what I wore to bed. My koala pajama bottoms and baggy Fleetwood Mac t-shirt are gone. Instead, I'm clad in snug tan pants and a loose navy blouse or tunic bound around my waist with a thick, black leather belt. Tall brown boots laced halfway up my shin cover my feet. I choose to ignore the implications of this new set of clothes for now—freaking out didn't accomplish much last time.

Taking Jeralt's hand, I allow him to guide me to my feet. "Sorry we got off on the wrong foot. Nobody here meant to scare you," he says, side-eyeing Byleth. Jeralt motions at my guitar. "Your… lute. We found it with you. Are you a minstrel, perhaps?"

Instinctively, I clutch the Fender to my chest. "I'm in a band. I play guitar, obviously." Lute? Jesus Christ, these guys are really taking this ye old Camelot shit seriously.

He scratches and toys with his beard. "Guitar…? Anyways, you have a group? Do you know where they are?"

You kidnapped me! And you're asking questions like that? "I'm begging you, please just take me back home."

Jeralt turns to exchange looks with Alois and Byleth, the former merely shrugging. With a sigh he focuses on me again. "This Chicago place? I don't know of any place with that name in Fódlan. Maybe Almyra or Brigid, but you don't seem to be from either."

Fódlan? Didn't… the demon god lady mention Fódlan? She said she was sending me there. But that was a dream! How could these people know about that? And I've never heard of Fódlan in my life! No, no, no, this can't be real! I grasp the sides of my head, trembling. Wake up! Please!

"If you don't tell us, we can't help you. For now, why don't we just get to Garreg Mach? We can sort the rest out there. We've wasted enough daylight already."

I'm too shell-shocked and petrified to resist when Jeralt begins leading me back to his horse. The others in this company watch me with varying degrees of pity and apprehension, as if none of them are responsible for my current state of mind. Jeralt tries to coax me onto his steed, but I mumble a refusal. I would rather walk. If I need to make a run for it, I can't do it from his horse, not that I expect to get very far. He acquiesces, letting me trudge alongside.

I jump at every sound, every rustling bush as we march. More than a few times, I shriek aloud. I can tell the three teenagers want to speak with me or at least ask some questions, but they appear sufficiently deterred by my jittery behavior. Occasionally, I catch Byleth watching me, her gaze betraying none of her thoughts. I am always the first to avert my eyes. To say she unsettles me would be an understatement.

The trail through the woods bends and winds, over hills and past trickling streams. I begin to note that we've steadily traveled at a gradual incline. Conifers overtake oaks and maples, and there's a marked dip in temperature. No place like this exists anywhere near Chicago. It reminds me a great deal of my family vacation years ago to the Pacific Northwest. A needling panic, more than the baseline anxiety I've felt so far creeps under my skin, insidious and pervasive. Even if these people kidnapped me, bringing me to a place like this would be impossible unless I was asleep for a long time. Rationally, it makes no sense. Why go to all this effort to bring me here?

Jeralt stops in front of me, and I nearly collide with his horse. "We're not going to reach the monastery before dark," he declares. "Time to set up camp, everyone."

There's a grumble among the troops, but they waste little time unpacking tents and creating a fire pit. I'm left standing off to the side, hugging myself against the twilight chill. Spending the night out here with likely unstable strangers is basically the worst thing I can imagine. But do I have a choice? I have no clue how to survive in the wilderness. I'd be lucky if a bear or wolf or whatever didn't eat me before dawn.

I feel something drape over my shoulders, insulating against some of the wind. I flinch and look up to see Dimitri. "Forgive me if I've acted impetuously. You seemed cold." I finger the fabric, velvety and smooth. His shoulder cape.

"Thanks… Dimitri," I manage to say after a short while. He tilts his head, a little taken aback. My brows furrow. "Was I not supposed to thank you?" Leave it to the criminally insane to be offended by gratitude.

He smiles and puts his palms out. "No, no. I am just unused to being addressed without titles or formality. In truth, I prefer it this way."

Delusions of grandeur? Fits the bill. I don't get a chance to question him, though, as Edelgard and Claude take up positions on either side.

Claude places his hands behind his head and chuckles. "Ingratiating yourself with her, Your Highness?" He tacks on a wink at the end.

"Not all actions come with an ulterior motive," Dimitri counters, narrowing his eyes at Claude.

Edelgard tosses some of her hair over her shoulder. "And yet it is foolish to take a person at solely face value." I'm beginning to think these three do not particularly get along.

They trade banter until I am forgotten. A few yards away, Jeralt nurses a fledgling flame into a respectable fire. With nothing else to do and nowhere else to go, I decide I'd rather not freeze in the night. I sit nearby, warding away the icy breeze. Jeralt grunts to signal he sees me but doesn't speak. Byleth stands on his left, scanning the forest for god knows what. At least she's not scanning me. Slowly, other members of the group gather around the fire as well. Alois and the three students, plus the assortment of other gruff individuals traveling with us. I never asked about them, but I assume they must be subordinates of Jeralt or Alois. Maybe both. There do seem to be two different sets of armor—one more like Alois and the other a bit eclectic and ranging from leather pads to chain mail.

"So." My head snaps up, and I see Alois smiling softly at me. "You play music, right? I think a nice song would lift everyone's spirits!"

He wants me to play? After all this, he wants me to play a song? My hands ball into fists. Impossible. These people are… impossible. Besides, I don't even have an amp.

If Alois notices my discomfort, he doesn't show it. "Oh, come on! I'm sure it will make you feel better too!" He nods at my guitar. "Just play a little _strum_ thing."

Did he… Was that… God, that was awful. The group rewards Alois with resounding silence for his effort. I hear a small _pfft_ to my right. Dimitri smiles into his palm. Somehow, only one person reacting instead of none is worse.

" _Play, child."_ Demon God Lady's voice echoes in my mind. I've settled the guitar in my lap before I register the action. No! I don't want to play! Not here, not for these people. But as I hold my Fender Stratocaster, feeling the energy tingle through my hands and arms and chest and legs and all the way down to my toes, I have to know. I have to know what it means. My fingers trace the strings. Playing is like breathing for me. There's nothing I love more than music.

A smattering of light cheers ripple throughout the camp. It's like being on stage. They all want to hear me. What I have to say with my music. Demon God Lady's words repeat over and over. I pluck a string. Then another. Then a chord. Then two. Three. Four. My fingers fly along the frets, and the notes flutter around me. My domain. My world. My own composition, airy and full, building to a crescendo where I forget everything and everyone. And I feel it. I feel it! The power and latent kinetic potential locked inside my guitar. It floods outward, enveloping me, caressing my skin with sweet heat and tidal warmth. I don't fight it. I let it carry me, wash over each fiber and cell. My music. What I've spent my life refining and tuning and cherishing as the part of my soul I most want to preserve. No one can take that away from me. It's _mine_. My indelible legacy.

When I reach the end, my hands slide down into the dirt, and beads of sweat patter on the guitar. Why did I play like that? Like I would never play again, never touch a guitar for the rest of my life?

"Wow." I remember where I am. Every pair of eyes in the clearing stares at me. Even Byleth looks affected. I don't know who said that, but it's followed by thunderous applause and whooping. The raucous noise take a while to die down. I did that?

"That was magic, wasn't it?" Jeralt says when it's quiet enough he can be heard. "We all felt it. You… cast a spell. During the song, it was like my limits were removed. I knew I was stronger, faster. How did you do that? I've never seen anything like it."

Magic? Magic isn't real. All the trepidation and fear of being here flows back. I don't know what just happened. It wasn't normal. "I just played," I say, knowing that couldn't be further from the truth.

"Keep your secrets then." Edelgard eyes me with interest, the appraising kind. "But that sort of ability could be worth a lot to the right people." Assuming I'm not killed or worse, I don't think I've heard the last on the subject from Edelgard.

Claude laughs. "If she said she just played, then she just played," he drawls, showing me a lopsided smile.

Whoever these students are, the way they carry themselves isn't like ordinary people. And with a gut-wrenching pang, I can no longer deny that this place isn't ordinary either. It's not Chicago. I don't even think it's America. I'm scared. I'm scared, and none of this adds up. I am not dreaming. This is reality. I study these people's faces. Alois, his genuinely kind eyes. Jeralt, severe and morose but not malicious. Even Byleth is just… vacant, not evil. Did they really kidnap me? Did that voice in the void really send me to 'Fódlan?' It's unbelievable, yet more likely than any other possibility. I _felt_ the music as I played. Not in some hipster audiophile way. Really _felt_ it.

God, just what is going on?

* * *

If I had any lingering doubts about whether this is a dream, waking up the next morning in a tent on the hard ground quashes them.

I'm numb. Physically. Emotionally. Numb. Jeralt says we should reach Garreg Mach by early afternoon, and all I can do is vaguely nod. I miss Chicago. I miss my friends and family. The more time I spend with Jeralt and the others, the more certain I am that this is all a cosmic joke. If they wanted to kill or maim me, sacrifice me to the blood god, they've had a thousand chances by now. I don't detect any hostility from them. Alois is supposedly a knight, and nothing I've observed has led me to think he isn't just a chivalrous man with an unfortunate attachment to puns. Maybe I lost my mind and this is psychosis. Maybe I'm dead. I don't know. I'm just numb.

The terrain becomes rockier, the density of trees thinning as we walk. I am very clearly not fit for this kind of exercise. Each of my breaths is labored and taxing. My legs feel carved from stone, dragging behind the rest of my body. In some places the path is narrow enough that those with horses are forced to lead them by the reins rather than ride them. Is there truly an academy and monastery in a location like this? My question is answered soon enough.

"There it is. Garreg Mach Monastery." Edelgard looks ahead impassively.

Oh.

Yeah.

There it is. Nestled into the weathered peaks of this mountain range sits a structure so magnificent that even in my present circumstance, I have to marvel at it. A series of imposing stone walls seemingly hewn from the cliffs themselves border the main complex. They protect a castle, its turrets and spires looming above the valley. Well, I call it a castle, but the true centerpiece of the sight is a Notre-Dame-esque cathedral. The front facing facade features two towers capped with blue cones—another two, even taller towers, rise at the back. Complete with flying buttresses and an ornate dome, the cathedral majestically presides over the mountain. A pair of waterfalls jet off the left side, so high that the water mists before it hits the bottom. I gawk inelegantly until the party passing by reminds me to close my mouth and keep moving.

I don't know of a place on Earth like this one. It frightens me. But am I really in Fódlan? Am I really… someplace else?

A shadow sweeps across us, and I glance upward. What I see is too batshit to comprehend. A trio of dragons—scaly, lizardy, fucking ginormous dragons—swoop overhead. I make out figures on their backs, literal dragon riders. Wait. Not dragons. No arms. Wyverns, then? That hardly matters right now. Neither creature exists. They're fantasy. _They're not real_. Fight or flight kicks in, and I try to hide behind a shrub. Someone snickers.

"Never seen a wyvern before?" Claude says, more than a little teasingly. "Don't worry, they're tame. Some of the knights ride them. Us students do sometimes as well, for flying practice."

"Buh?" I think that's an understandable reply given my world has just been shattered.

Dimitri, who I have come to consider to be the nicest of the three, kneels next to me, concerned. "Hey, you're safe here. We're almost to the monastery. The wyverns won't hurt you."

I want to trust him. I really do. It's just not easy accepting the existence of _fucking wyverns_. Fódlan is hell. Unadulterated hell. "O-OK," I stammer, summoning the feeble remnants of my courage to keep walking.

He smiles at me while Edelgard rolls her eyes. She probably thinks I'm pathetic. She's not wrong. I'm not cut out for this. Whatever _this_ is. More than ever, I just want to squeeze my eyes shut and pray and pray and pray that when I open them I'm back in my apartment.

It doesn't work.

Garreg Mach gets closer and closer. Other travelers, pilgrims and farmers, greet us on the road. When we finally reach the gatehouse, the guards let us through without incident. Jeralt pauses to stare up at a woman atop a balcony watching us enter. She's otherworldly. Long, luxurious green hair cascades down her shoulders, in part contained by the elaborate headdress she wears. Her robes look ceremonial almost. Religious?

"Rhea's here," Jeralt says. I can't read his tone. But there's history, that much I know. Byleth looks up as well, inscrutable as ever.

At this point, Dimitri, Claude, and Edelgard split from us. They wish us well and thank Jeralt and Byleth again for saving them, an event I am happy to have been unconscious during. Bandits? No thanks. I nearly forget to return Dimitri's cape but save myself future embarrassment by catching him right before they leave.

Alois leads those of us remaining (Jeralt's men chose to wait outside the monastery) to what I shortly learn is the Officers Academy proper. Not nearly as grand as the cathedral, it's nonetheless fancier than any school I've ever been to. I don't get to see much before we are ushered to the second floor, but the reception hall alone boasts a vaulted ceiling and polished marble flooring. Alois says we're meeting the archbishop. That's not exactly the most calming news. I'm guessing they run the monastery, though, and that hopefully means information.

Unsurprisingly, the archbishop turns out to be Rhea. Up close, she's serene and beautiful, and despite the strange hair, the sight of her puts me a little at ease. Jeralt, however, shifts his weight from foot to foot, grimacing and sighing in equal measure. Yeah, history. For sure. He and Byleth exchange hushed words, and I parse a few phrases, gleaning that Archbishop Rhea is the leader a religious organization called the Church of Seiros. Which makes Alois and those other people, what, Templars or something?

In the audience chamber, Rhea and another green-haired person await our arrival. The man with her has hawkish eyes, observing our every motion carefully. His hair is a darker shade than hers, and he keeps it relatively long for a man. Well-groomed, though. Fastidious is a good word for him.

"Thank you for your patience," he begins, inclining his head. "I am Seteth, an advisor to the archbishop."

Jeralt frowns. "Right. Hello."

The conversation that follows mostly goes over my head. Something about Jeralt being a former Knight of Seiros. Blah blah blah they want him to return to his old post. Yada yada yada they want Byleth to be a professor (not my first choice, just saying). And oh yeah, Jeralt is Byleth's dad. I try to see the family resemblance, but there isn't any. Must take after her mother. Who apparently sadly passed away. I think of my own parents. Am I going to see them again? Surely, there's a way out of here. Demon God Lady called me her "vessel." That's not promising.

"You are a curiosity as well," Seteth says, turning to me. "Alois says you are a musician? What is your name?"

I expected this. Doesn't mean I don't flounder before answering. "P-Piper Pendergast."

Seteth hums, like he's determining if my name is just an alias or not. "Alois also said you played while on the road. And that it was… magical. May we see your instrument?"

Nodding, I swing my guitar from my back so he and Rhea can get a better look at it. Rhea's lips purse slightly for a moment before her expression returns to normal. "I confess I've never seen an instrument quite like that," she says. Her eyes are piercing, and I can't hold her gaze. "May I examine it?"

Guess I don't have much choice, do I? Holding it by the neck, I offer it to her. Rhea moves to accept the guitar, but as her fingers brush its surface, she recoils. Seteth steadies her with a hand. "Lady Rhea!" he exclaims. "Are you alright?"

"Y-Yes, Seteth, I am fine." The archbishop recovers, staring at my guitar with… hunger? I can't say because it fades as quickly as it comes. "That is a powerful relic you wield. I do not see a Crest Stone, though. Do you possess a Crest?"

Demon God Lady used those words. Relic and Crest. Said she put her Crest on my heart. Disconcerting. This is… I need to be careful here. Something feels wrong. "I don't know," I say simply. Telling anyone that I might possibly have some demon's Crest stamped on my heart seems like a bad idea.

Rhea studies me. And smiles. "I see. Are you a believer in the Church of Seiros?"

I'm not gonna get burned at the stake for saying no, am I? "I've never been much for religion, archbishop," I explain. This is my chance. "In fact, a lot of things are new to me here. I'd like to return home, but I think I'm lost. If you can help, I would really appreciate it." It's a shot in the dark. Still, I have to try.

"And where might home be?"

"Not Fódlan," I say. Barring magic and wyverns, these people are medieval. Talking about America and modern technology also seems like a bad idea. "I think I'm very far from home."

She listens solemnly. "Garreg Mach is a sanctuary for all," Rhea says, eyes flitting to my guitar. "We would be happy to provide you with a safe haven until you can find a way to return to your homeland. However, I have a proposition."

This cannot be good. She continues when I don't say anything. "I am sure you are aware that Garreg Mach also hosts the Officers Academy. Given your… talents and intriguing use of magic, I believe you would make a fine addition to the Academy. The Blue Lion House is even short on ladies. Normally, we require a fee to attend, but under special circumstances, we have been known to wave it. What do you say, Piper?"

Seteth looks ready to pop a blood vessel. "My lady, you can't be serious! This is—"

"That's enough, Seteth. I've made my decision. I would ask that Piper now makes hers."

This is a trap. This is a trap. This is a trap.

"Sure."

What the fuck am I doing?

* * *

Archbishop Rhea gazes out her bedchamber window. The flow of time has certainly brought something extraordinary to Garreg Mach. All these years… could it be?

_Mother, have you returned to me?_


	2. Song in the Mist

As a mild connoisseur of costumes, I have to admit that I don't look too bad in the Officers Academy uniform.

My band wasn't the type to go on stage dressed as schoolgirls, but looking at myself in this tall oval mirror, I think we would have rocked it. Not that any of them will ever have the chance to wear the uniform. I watch my reflection's shoulders sag. No amount of gold trim or fancy tassels is going to make me feel any less horrified. Being here—Fódlan—this faraway place with faraway people, strangles all sense of hope. I can put on the uniform, wear the shiny Blue Lions pin on my chest, but I can't pretend to care.

I unfasten the jacket collar, allowing the white blouse beneath to show. Less suffocating.

The truth is I don't have a clue what I'm doing. Archbishop Rhea offered me a place here, and despite _knowing_ she has some kind of ulterior motive, I accepted. Stupid. But what other options are there? Wander around the mountains until I stumble off a cliff and die? At least here, with the resources of this 'Church of Seiros' nearby, maybe I will discover how to return home. It's better than lying down and waiting for death.

Three knocks, evenly spaced, sound from the door. Small mercy that I get my own room in the dormitory. More freedom to cry myself to sleep.

"Piper? Are you finished? Do you need any help?" The airy voice of Mercedes, my designated tour guide, drifts through the mahogany.

I'm guessing she means well, but the big sister routine gets old fast. "I'm done, thanks," I say briskly. "I've dressed myself before, you know."

I hear Mercedes shuffle outside. "May I come in?"

"Yeah, sure."

She enters, closing the door behind her and offering a serene smile. "The uniform suits you. I'm relieved the monastery had a well-fitting spare."

We share a look, and I remain silent. Mercedes reminds me of a dedicated daycare worker, relentlessly patient and considerate. Except I am not a toddler. She has a few years on me at most, not nearly enough to justify babysitting. I suppose I must look like a lost little lamb, though. It's not an untrue assessment. Still, I hate being coddled.

"Is there anything I can do for you? If you want any adjustments to your uniform, I'm rather handy with a needle and thread," Mercedes says, cutting across my thoughts. "Or maybe braid your hair? You have quite a lot, like me. I'm sure I can help."

I stifle an irritated sigh. "I'm good. And I like keeping my hair loose."

Mercedes steps forward, her shawl fluttering. "Piper," she begins, "I don't know much about your story, but I believe the goddess always has a plan. You can feel safe here at Garreg Mach."

Great, one of _those_ types. "As much as I appreciate all your… kindness, if you want to hold hands and pray or whatever, I'll pass."

She tilts her head, smile never wavering. "I sought only to reassure you. Prayer is not for everyone."

Wow, now I feel like an asshole. I suspect this is why she's my chaperone, someone who can just smile at my rudeness. Folding my arms, I stare at the wall. "So, what now?"

Mercedes clasps her hands together and abruptly bundles against my flank. "Now, we take you to meet the rest of the Blue Lions!"

Joy. I grumble under my breath as Mercedes hums a pleasant tune and escorts me to the house homerooms. We passed by them earlier on the way to the dorms, but I only caught a glimpse of the courtyard. Like everything else at Garreg Mach, it's elegant and sophisticated. Manicured grass and trees decorate the exterior, park-like benches providing peaceful sitting areas for students to chat or read. At the far end, a stone archway connects the classrooms with the main building of the academy, and beyond that hedgerows line cobbled paths leading to what is apparently the dining hall. There's also… a lot of cats. Like. A lot. I guess when Rhea said the monastery is a sanctuary for all, she meant _all_.

We meander through the garden, Mercedes pausing every few yards to greet a random student or pet a cat. It's exasperating. Eventually, after many cats and many 'hellos,' Mercedes and I reach the Blue Lions homeroom. Two banners featuring the titular 'blue lion' adorn either side of the entrance. A tiny orange-haired girl stands near the doorway, her blue eyes widening upon seeing us.

"Mercie!" she calls, dashing the distance and nearly face-planting. The girl beams at me. "Is this the new student? To be honest, I was a little bummed when I heard that mercenary professor wouldn't be teaching our class, but it's so neat to have a fresh face join the Blue Lions!"

This kid seems energetic, to put it lightly. Her enthusiasm is genuine, though, as far as I can tell. Mercedes waves a hand between myself and the girl. "Piper, this is my best friend—"

"I'm Annette!" she interjects, circular curls on the ends of her tresses bobbing. "It's really nice to meet you, Piper!"

"Uh, likewise," I mumble, shifting my weight from foot to foot. They're best friends? I don't want to third wheel.

Annette peers at the Stratocaster strapped to my back, eyes glittering. "That's magic, right? Prince Dimitri mentioned you played on the road. I'd love to learn more about how it works!"

Yeah, you and me both, Anne of Green Gables. "Can you play any instruments?" I ask, deflecting.

She frowns. "Well, no, but I went to the Royal School of Sorcery in Fhirdiad! Mercie and I met there. So I know a thing or two about magic."

"Maybe later we can talk about it." Or not. Preferably not. Annette takes this as a good sign, nodding and grinning. Hopefully, she forgets.

A trio of people joining us in front of the homeroom spares me from further discussion on the subject. Two boys, one tall, redheaded, and breezy looking and the other shorter with dark hair drawn back into a bun and austere eyes. There's a blonde girl as well, about my height, scowling at each of the boys in turn over words I don't catch.

"Oh, no one told me you were such a beauty!" the redhead exclaims, his smile crooked. "I'm Sylvain, by the way. I know we just met, but—"

The blonde whacks him in the back of the head and pinches the bridge of her nose. "You can ignore him," she says. "In fact, please do. And, ah, you may call me Ingrid. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

So, Sylvain is a fuckboy, got it. I give Ingrid a halfhearted smile. Has everyone heard of me? My gaze shifts to the other boy, who taps his foot and glares off into the distance. Not the friendliest guy around. After being an ass to Mercedes, though, it feels wrong not to introduce myself.

"I'm Piper," I say, trying to make eye contact with all three and settling on the moody one. "Sylvain, Ingrid, and…" My voice hangs in the air as a question.

"Felix." He doesn't bother to look at me.

Ingrid elbows him, and I sense that she must be the only reason either of these two knuckleheads are still functioning. "Be polite, Felix."

He eyes me briefly, dismissively. "She doesn't seem like anyone worth sparring."

OK, you edgy little twerp. You and your man bun can stuff it. "Look, man, we just met. You don't know shit about me."

This gets his attention, as well as everyone else present. Felix sneers. "I know your skinny arms aren't strong enough to swing a broom, let alone a sword."

Probably. Almost definitely. But fuck you, Felix. Fuck you. I am about to say as much when Dimitri, shadowed by an enormous dark-skinned man, slides into view.

"We are all friends here," Dimitri says, placating. "Felix, there is no need to antagonize our new house member. And Piper, it is good to see you again."

Felix merely scoffs, stalking away and tossing a remark about training over his shoulder. Good riddance. Dickhead. I turn back to the group, a faint blush invading my cheeks. I made a scene. Wonderful first impression, I'm sure.

Dimitri nods after Felix's retreating form. "Felix is a somewhat… prickly individual. I promise that he has a good heart, though." He gestures to his fellow classmates. "At any rate, the Blue Lions welcome you to our house, Piper. Don't hesitate to ask for anything you might need."

I notice a freckled boy with gray hair poking his head around a corner from within the classroom. Contrary to my instincts regarding Felix, I immediately want to pat this kid on the head. I wave slightly at him, and focus again on Dimitri.

"I'll let you know if I think of something," I answer, marginally more comfortable now that someone I've met before is here.

It's painfully obvious that I'm an outsider, however. I see it in their gazes. In the questions brimming behind their eyes they can't bring themselves to ask. Mercedes told me that all the Blue Lions are citizens of Faerghus. I'm an anomaly, practically an alien lifeform. Well, not practically. I _am_ an alien. Fódlan isn't my world.

Someone tugs on my sleeve. Annette looks up at me, brows knitted. "I haven't met many people who swear so openly," she says, more curious than offended. "Felix, of course. But it's interesting! You're so… liberated."

God, I'd hope I seem liberated to all these medieval people. Civilization didn't go through thousands of years of progress for me to be afraid of saying the word 'shit.' But Annette's comment reminds me that I should be cautious about what I say. Who knows what taboos I might cross?

I just shrug at her. The initial hullabaloo surrounding my appearance dies down, Sylvain and Ingrid bickering about his 'philandering' while Dimitri attempts to mediate. Annette and Mercedes lapse into the easy flow of conversation that only close friends can achieve. Fine by me. I brush past the students, entering the homeroom.

Desks cluttered with leather-bound volumes and parchment paper line the floor in two columns. Candles supplement the sunlight, and a chandelier overhead adds a kind of rustic charm to the atmosphere. A fireplace crackles to the right, a homey blaze that I imagine serves as an excellent reading spot. Bookcases occupy the far walls, while what I assume is the teacher's desk sits beside a traditional chalkboard. In other words, this is some Harry Potter shit.

I sit at the desk in the back right corner, my preferred seat back in high school. At this range the fire radiates a pleasing warmth, and I soon lose myself watching the wood splinter and blacken. Thoughts of home batter the mental fortress I erected this morning. Thoughts of my parent's fireplace, how every winter it became a permanent fixture at the house. The Christmas tree at night, silver garland transformed into sunset colored wreaths. Do they have anything like Christmas in Fódlan? Holidays are pointless without friends and family, anyways. I fight them, but fat tears tumble off my chin, splattering onto the varnished table surface. God, I am so alone.

"Hello."

My legs bang against the desk as I jolt, tear streaked face turning to meet the source.

"Ah. I've done it again." The massive man who followed Dimitri stands before me, towering and intimidating. "I apologize. I shall leave you in peace."

Does he think he made me cry? "No, wait," I say, drying my eye on the back of a hand. "It's not your fault."

The giant man glowers down at me—that may be an unfair description; he's just naturally fucking terrifying. "All the same, I apologize. I do not wish to intrude. It is far from my place to dwell where I am not needed."

A gentle giant, perhaps? "What's your name?" I ask, sniffing.

"I am Dedue, a servant of His Highness."

"Piper. Sorry I'm in such a state."

He shakes his head. "Your apology is unnecessary."

Dedue is clearly a man of few words. I'm wracking my brain for something else to say when the freckly boy I saw earlier pops out from behind Dedue. Next to this human mountain, he's laughably small. It only increases his head pat index.

"Hey, Piper, I'm Ashe." He flashes a dimpled smile. Truly, this child is a cinnamon roll. "It's good to meet you. I hope it's not too forward of me to ask if you're alright."

I lie and tell him I am. He knows I'm lying, but doesn't press the issue. It's not something he can fix regardless. No one can. The ensuing awkward and tense silence lasts until he and Dedue amble towards the gaggle of other students. Soon, everyone will hear that I was crying, that I'm unsociable and aloof—that's how these things go. I shouldn't give a shit. I'm not here because I want to be. So why should it matter what any of these people think of me?

Because this is all you have, Piper.

That's hilarious. Garreg Mach? The Officers Academy? The Blue Lions? None of this is mine. And yet… there is nothing else. I'll go insane, throw myself from the ramparts into the misty ravine below if I don't cling to something. Even in this hellhole, I want to live.

If only to one day punch that motherfucking Demon God Lady right in her face.

* * *

I spend the rest of the afternoon familiarizing myself with the grounds of Garreg Mach. The complex occupies a fairly large swathe of the mountain, enough to hold numerous nooks and crannies, places to seclude myself. The aqueduct fed pond and greenhouse are cozy, perfect for quiet evenings or nighttime visits. I'm not sure if there's a curfew for students, but I have no doubt I won't mind breaking it to spend a couple hours somewhere I can properly collect my thoughts.

There's other places of note as well. The gazebo behind the reception hall. The stables, housing more absurdly bearded horses—and pegasi, a mythical creature whose existence is moderately more palatable than wyverns. There's a training hall I didn't investigate, and nearby sauna and bathhouse I most certainly _did_ investigate. A bath sounds like heaven. Tonight. I can feel my skin screaming.

I remember seeing a marketplace on the way into the monastery, so that might be worth dithering about at a later date. Maybe when I have whatever Fódlan uses for money. For now, though, I'm exhausted. Exploring the cathedral can wait as well. I don't want to blow through all my distractions on day one. Garreg Mach is a monastery and school not a theme park, after all. On top of a mountain. There's limited shit to do.

All my aimless walking lands me along the path next to the Knights Hall. If it wasn't for the fact the academy is a military one, I'd find it odd that knights live so close to students. It's not entirely unwelcome, having a bunch of presumably chivalrous soldiers around if shit hits the fan. Pursing my lips, the notion of being forced to partake in some fantasy land war barges into my mind. I'm technically a student at the Officers Academy, an institution blatantly training people for leadership roles in armies. I don't have any allegiances. Perhaps no one will try to make me fight? Fuck, I really didn't think this through. Swallowing my budding fear, I reach the battlements rimming the edge of Garreg Mach.

As if to insult my lack of foresight further, I gaze beneath the walls and see a cemetery. One filled with dozens of graves. Lovely. I'm ready to nope out when I spot a figure kneeling before a tombstone. Jeralt. Someone he knew is buried here? He did used to be a Knight of Seiros, right? War buddy? Whoever it is, this is a private moment. I shouldn't be spying.

Jeralt rises, ruffling his undercut and turning. Reflexively, I duck. Footfalls clop against the stone staircase leading down to the graveyard. Why am I hiding? I'm suspicious as fuck right now.

"You know I can see you, right?" Jeralt's deep bass intones, blunt but not angry.

Sheepish and abashed, I glance at him from my crouched position. "Um. This isn't as bad as it looks."

He sighs, a wizened exhale, laced in decades and world-weary years. "If you're not committing a crime, don't act like you are," Jeralt says, indicating for me to get up with a finger. I do. "People watching isn't a sin."

"Yeah, but..." I trail off, eyes drifting to the headstone he visited.

"Kid, if I cared who saw me at that grave I wouldn't be there in broad daylight."

I scuff the toe of my boot along the ground. Jeralt's stern expression softens as he studies me. I didn't pick up on it before, but he does have a fatherly aura. I could do without being called 'kid,' though.

"Aren't you going to ask me who it is?" He dons an expectant pseudo-frown.

"Huh?" I balk for second or two, working my brows into a troubled line. "That's not really any of my business."

Jeralt puts a hand on his hip and scratches his beard, an action that seems like muscle memory for him. Does he… want me to ask? Does he want to talk about the person buried there? No, not with me. Not a girl half his age he found unconscious yesterday. Even so, Jeralt's eyes are lonely, distant, swimming with old pain made fresh.

"Alright… Well, it was someone important to you, I'm assuming," I venture, breaking the stalemate.

He dips his head. "Yeah. Very important," he agrees, giving me an approximation of a smile. "A long time ago I lived here. Her too."

Oh. A lover? This is territory I have no desire to stick my nose in. But I can't just bail. "I'm sorry," I say, looking at my boots. "Losing someone is tough."

"It's all in the past." Jeralt twists his back and stretches. "I need a drink. You coming?"

My mouth hangs open before I snap it shut. Is he serious? I've had my share of beers smuggled into underage parties, but do I look like someone a middle aged man should share drinks with? Maybe he just gives no fucks? No way, he's the new captain of the guard. Jeralt knows I'm a student. This has to violate _some_ rule. Is it OK to just pub crawl with a knight? More importantly, do _I_ need a drink? Shit, I do, don't I?

"Kid," Jeralt says, lips quirked. "I'm joking."

Goddammit. He got me. "I can drink. I've done it loads of times," I say defensively.

Jeralt chuckles, striding past. "You're a funny one, Piper."

I watch him go, pouting at his back. Fine. Teasing old man can drink alone. It'd probably be weird anyways. And I'm in uniform. Rumors are already circulating about me. Delinquency isn't an easy label to shake. As a former delinquent, I would know.

Taking a last look at the cemetery and the grave of the woman Jeralt knew years ago, I head for the dormitory, striking a melancholic pace. I plan to grab a towel or at least something that can pass for one, then use the bathes hopefully before they crowd. The prospect of hot water and soap, a temporary refuge from omnipotent worries, fills my legs with renewed vigor. There's been very little to enjoy since I came here, and I intend to soak as long as possible.

I turn the heavy brass key in my door. My half a semester of college before dropping out in favor of music taught me that dorm rooms don't look this nice. I'm not sure what that says about American higher education when medieval accommodations surpass it. Slipping my guitar off and onto the bed, I begin rummaging through the vanity table and dressers for toiletries. Most drawers are empty or contain only antique hairbrushes and hand mirrors, probably leftovers once belonging to students who lived here before myself. In the end, I fail to find a genuine towel and compromise with a linen sheet. Frustrating lack of possessions aside, I'm ready for this bath. Gathering the courage to ask Rhea if the monastery will lend me some basic necessities is a tomorrow problem. I grab my guitar before exiting—I don't trust it out of my sight.

No one crosses my path as I climb the stairs to the bathing facilities, a good sign. I push open the paneled wooden door, admiring the delicate stained glass. Inside, steam wafts about the foyer, a humid haze that makes my limbs ache for soothing water. The building divides the baths into men and women's sections, and I'm both surprised and disturbed to see English plaques identifying each. Granted, everyone I've met so far speaks English, but actually seeing it only compiles the mystery of Fódlan. This world isn't the same planet. But to share a language with Earth, they must be connected.

Thinking about it just upsets me.

Huffing, I slide the partition blocking the women's area and step into a changing room. A changing room with towels. Of course. I drape the linens I brought over a bench, feeling foolish. This isn't summer camp; you don't have to bring your own towel. Symmetrical square cubbyholes offer places to store your clothes and belongings while bathing. It's not unlike a modern equivalent, if obviously less sleek. Thankful no one's around, I disrobe, folding my uniform neatly. I consider leaving the Stratocaster here, but I can't risk it. What if someone stole it? What if it got broken? As shitty as Demon God Lady is for sending me to Fódlan, the enchanted guitar represents my only use in this world. Into the bath we go, Fendy.

The air tickles my skin, cloying heat I feel prying open pores and seeping into sore muscles. A pool dominates the center, dark rocks outlining its rectangular breadth. I'm tempted to slip right in, but I don't see any soap or sponges. Surveying through the mist, I see a few doors that might be sauna rooms and several stall-like pods. Metal pipes with bulky nozzles hang over each.

Oh my God, showers.

Giddy, I all but skip towards the nearest one. The floor slopes into a drainage hole about the size of an orange in the middle, and attached to the pipe is a lever mechanism. 'Shower' is a bit generous. This seems to just dump water on the occupant. It doesn't dampen my excitement, since any form of shower is better than no shower.

Propping my guitar on a wall, I stand under the nozzle. A wicker basket holds a rough block of lye and a vial of pale violet liquid. I pull the stopper and sniff tentatively. Flowers? It doesn't tell me what the stuff is, but it smells good. To be safe I'll just use the soap.

My shower amounts to cranking the lever to douse myself, rubbing lye over every inch of my body, and repeating the process until I no longer feel like a disgusting blanket of dirt and oil.

Clean and refreshed, I pad over to the pool. You know, if this was an anime or some shit, someone would have definitely crashed my party by now. Or maybe that Sylvain dude would 'accidentally' enter the women's bath. Snorting, I lower myself into the water. Absolute bliss.

" _Tiny, teeny buggy wuggies, itty bitty sluggy tubbies. Wriggling along the leaves and munching away as they please. Inching up the big,tall tree, someday seeking to be free. Staring longingly at the sky; don't worry, one day you'll fly._ "

Oh fuck you, universe. Mentioning the trope beforehand doesn't make it less moronic. I splash around in the water for a moment, scurrying into a corner. Whoever's singing isn't awful. The song sounds made up on the spot, but with some practice she'd be as good as… Well, it doesn't matter.

I call out. "Hey, someone's in here!"

The voice dies mid-verse. "S-Sorry! I didn't know! Did you… did you hear all that?"

"You don't see my clothes in the changing room? Whatever, yeah, I heard your song," I say, scowling.

She doesn't respond right away. "Ah." I hear a few seconds later. "I see them now. The Blue Lions pin… Piper?"

"Yes, yes, it's me. Who are you?"

"It's Annette. We met earlier today."

I blow a bubble in the water. "I remember."

Neither of us speaks until Annette announces that she's coming in. I was so close to a perfectly solitary bath. Stupid community bathing. Annette bustles somewhere behind me. Just get in the shower thing already so I can escape. Finally, there's the _whoosh_ of a torrent of water gushing from the pipe.

Snatching my guitar and towel, I dart towards the exit.

"I like coming early, too," Annette says, freezing me. "It's quiet, and I can sing… Though, I suppose you know that now." She giggles, a bit of a nervous waver.

Fucking hell, I'm trapped. "That's why I didn't expect anyone to be here," she explains, continuing unprompted. "I'm really sorry if I startled you!"

"It's fine." I wrap the towel around my chest and waist, leaning against the wall. Please be done talking. Please be done talking. Please be done—

"Actually, if you don't mind, since we're both here, maybe you can tell me about your lute."

I _do_ mind. "First of all, it's a guitar. Not a lute. And second, there's nothing to tell."

"Guitar," Annette echoes. "I've never heard of that. There must be more you can—"

"There isn't!" I shout, sucking in the words far too late. Annette is friendly. Almost everyone here is friendly to me. I'm stressed, beyond stressed, really, and there's so many things I don't understand. People asking questions I want the answers to as well. It hurts. It hurts so much. Every single second in Fódlan is agony. This whole shower and bath and fucking nonsense did jack shit but taunt me. Bliss? Refreshing? Make believe. I look at that pool and wish I had _my_ bathtub. _My_ soap. _My_ shampoo. _My own fucking towel_. Not Garreg Mach. Not Fódlan. Not any of this.

God, I'm crying again. Sobbing. I want to go home. I want to go home so badly.

Annette's head pokes out from her stall, curls damp and flat. She emerges in full a moment later, covered with a towel like I am. "Oh no, Piper, I'm so sorry! Please don't cry! I didn't mean to make you sad!"

"I should go," I croak, grabbing my guitar.

She rests her hand on my upper arm, careful and light. "You don't have to. We can talk if you want."

What is there to talk about? What could possibly be said to make this nightmare any better? I can't tell Annette the truth. I can't tell anyone the truth.

"I'm homesick." The words spill out unrestrained, kernels of truth, jagged and searing. "I miss my family. And friends. My band. I don't want to be here, Annette. I don't want to be here at all."

I'm not sure what I expect from her, but it isn't a hug. Annette embraces me, tucking her head against my neck, arms squeezing my middle back. It feels like… ages since anyone has hugged me. Reticent, I let my arms envelop her, palms barely touching the fleece fabric of her towel. Annette's grip slacks, and she holds my shoulders at arm's length.

Her eyes are bright, compassionate. "You looked like you needed a hug. Mercie gives hugs like that, so I thought you could use one too."

If Mercedes is a big sister, Annette is definitely a little sister. I don't have any siblings, but if I had a sister like Annette, I think it wouldn't be too bad.

"Thanks," I say, averting my eyes.

Annette lets her hands drop, interlocking them in front of her waist. "I heard you're not from Fódlan. This is the first I've ever even been outside Faerghus. It must be hard traveling this far, being a long way from home."

Understatement of the century. "You could say that."

"I don't know your situation specifically," Annette says, rocking on her feet, "or understand what it's like, but I do know how it feels to be apart from someone you love."

"Is that so?" I hate the bitterness in my voice.

She nods, corners of her lips twitching upward. "The good news is you can make friends, people to support you and support in return. We're both in the Blue Lions house, and the way I see it, that makes us friends."

Friends? How naive. She really is like a little sister. But I smile. I smile because Annette means those words. Nobody asked her to offer kindness, reach out with empathy to a person who thought of her as just an annoyance. I've been unfair. I never even thanked Jeralt for essentially saving my life. None of them are responsible for this mess. I think of Mercedes and Dimitri, providing unappreciated assistance. Dedue and Ashe, who saw me crying but didn't judge. If I give Ingrid, Sylvain, and Felix a chance, maybe they'll be the same. Well, probably not Felix. You can't win them all.

"I have an idea," Annette chimes. "You like music, don't you?"

"I _am_ a musician."

She bobs her head emphatically. "I can… I can sing while you play!"

What, her swiggity swooty slug song? "In here?" I ask, swirling some steam around my hand. "And besides, I don't think we know any of the same songs."

Undeterred, Annette drags me down to sit with her. "Why not here? Here is just fine!" she insists. "I'll sing a melody, and you play something to match."

Before I can protest again, Annette begins humming. Her tune is uneven, at times jarringly so, but it's earnest. Heartfelt. Annette wants to be my friend, and she wants to sing a song with me.

Easing the Stratocaster into my lap, I pluck a few notes to loosen my fingers. I choose a simple chord progression, something Annette can sing to without a lot of trouble: I-IV-V in the key of G, convenient since it doesn't require a capo. My strumming stays easy, steady and slow, fingerpicking sometimes for variety.

Annette drums on her thigh to the rhythm, smiling as her humming morphs to lyrics.

" _Across a shimmering sea, over waves and endless blue—_ "

Magic thrums outward from the strings, latching onto the steam, coiling around us.

" _I sail against the warnings of the wind all to reach you—_ "

Her voice strengthens, emboldened, rich in electric vibrations, that permeating energy.

" _Adrift but not lost, floating but not afraid, seeking the shore—_ "

I can see the music's power in her eyes, what I'm doing, this ability entrusted to me.

" _Years of searching, at last on the horizon, all I want and more—_ "

My hands move swiftly, fiercer, enraptured in song, in the fullness of harmony.

" _The island where your heart lies, where we can stand side by side—_ "

Mystic tendrils swell and burst, arcane synesthesia surging and reflected in our irises.

" _Finally together, breathing sweet sighs as the sun sets below the tide_."

And all at once, it ceases. Annette and I stare at one another, vestiges of what transpired lingering as static. Her expression of awe melts into a tender smile. Annette wanted to know more about the guitar, about this baffling magic. Part of me thought she might leave after experiencing it, that me and my Stratocaster were just an unusual case study. But that's not true. And it's not true that I have to face the future all alone either. Because next to me, her hair frizzing as it dries, is someone I never expected to find so soon in Fódlan.

A friend.


	3. The Meaning of Music

When Rhea arranged a uniform, dormitory, and assigned me to the Blue Lions, the last thing I considered was actually needing to attend lessons. I shouldn’t be surprised; this _is_ a school after all. Still, I thought I was done with lectures and homework after my brief foray into university life. And the professor, the head of our house, Hanneman, reminds me of every dusty academic too lost in research to remember to tie his own shoes. He can’t even make it through a single point without going on a tangent about how Crests are the most fascinating things since mankind discovered that open sewers are fucking disgusting.

“Miss Pendergast, I presume there is some reason you seem so unfocused?”

I lift my chin from my palm, blinking. Hanneman hasn’t singled me out much yet, beyond the awkwardness of being a new student from a strange land. I assumed he wrote me off as an irredeemable dullard. My gaze settles for the unopened textbook on my desk.

“No reason,” I mumble. “I’m paying attention.”

Hanneman places the chalk he’d been using on his podium. He strides between desks until he looms over me. Guy might be a cranky old bastard, but he’s tall enough to be intimidating. “Given that you have not taken a single note nor introduced the pages of your poor textbooks to the light of day, I am inclined to believe you either have the most unparalleled memory I have ever encountered… or you are daydreaming, Miss Pendergast.”

Someone unseen snickers. Only a deep breath prevents me from rounding on them. Instead, I fold my arms and glare at Hanneman. “Fine. I was zoned out.” His smugness pisses me off, so I continue. “But can you blame me? Who wants to sit around reading about magic when they could be out there doing it?”

“I suspect anyone interested in not accidentally blowing off one of their arms,” he responds, adjusting his monocle as some sort of punctuation. “Miss Pendergast, please remain here after the lesson.”

Shit. Detention? Oh, come on. I try to backtalk, but one imperious stare fizzles anything I had to say. Whatever. Hanneman resumes the lecture where he left off—something about black vs white magic and the outlier of dark magic. It’s all just hocus pocus to me.

There’s a tug on my sleeve. Annette leans close, hand cupped over her mouth. “If you need help with the material later, I’m a pretty good tutor,” she whispers.

I manage to feign a smile and nod.

My deskmates, Annette and Mercedes, insisted I sit near them. With Annette being essentially the only person I’ve truly confided in, accepting wasn’t exactly a difficult decision. But both of them are here to study and learn—diligent students who earn high marks. Me, well, I’m just lucky I can read the writing in these textbooks. I have no interest in being an honor student, just figuring out what the hell happened to bring me here and how to reverse it. These boring lessons won’t help me with that.

Hanneman drones on and on until finally it ends. Annette and Mercedes look apologetic at having to leave me to whatever punishment Hanneman has concocted. I assure them it’s fine, that I’ve dealt with worse. Not wholly untruths. In school suspension is nothing like _The Breakfast Club_. They tell me to meet them in the dining hall should I get out before dinner. One of the few perks to living at Garreg Mach, honestly—the food is fantastic.

Students file out of the Blue Lions homeroom. I watch them go, thinking about how nice it would be to drown my misery in saghert and cream. No idea what’s in it, but the flavor is just the right amount of sweet and rich. Suppressing a sigh, I lean back in my chair as Hanneman collects his papers and books.

Tucking them neatly into a tasteful chocolate brown briefcase, he looks up. “Come along, Miss Pendergast. No time to dilly dally.”

“What? We’re going somewhere?” Never a good sign.

He beckons impatiently, waving his hand. “My office, yes. I can’t very well test your Crest with only a chalkboard.”

Test my… Wait, what? “So, I’m not in trouble then?”

Hanneman stares like one might at a dog that just chased its own tail. “No, you are not. I am much too busy with _important_ things to discipline every slacker who dozes through a lecture.”

“Oh thank god,” I say, feeling my muscles relax. And then tense again. “But… my Crest? Why are you interested in my Crest? Do I even have one?” I don’t think Demon God Lady lied about the Crest. But the more ignorant I act, the less likely I am to say something I shouldn’t.

He tuts. “Relics generally corrupt the Crestless, so I believe it is more a matter of which Crest than if you possess one at all. You have quite the origin story, you know, Miss Pendergast. My, two new mysterious individuals at once. Quite riveting.”

The way he studies me, like a specimen almost, has me shifting my feet. I’m not some damn lab rat. Pride, indignant and flushed, wells up and quakes as barely stifled snark. I have to swallow it. What Hanneman learns about my Crest could tell me something about how to return home. So, I follow him.

For an old guy, Hanneman sure does walk fast. He also doesn’t seem to care or notice that I’m basically power walking not to fall behind. By the time we reach his office in the main building, I’m panting a little. Still, he bustles over to his desk, sorting his things and muttering to himself, giving me a bit of time to recover.

As far as offices go, Hanneman’s is pretty nice. Bookshelves crammed full line the walls, a ladder tucked away in the corner for reaching the highest rows. His desk sits center, and a table with a few plush chairs off to the left round out the furnishings. Everything has a lovely red-brown lacquer that suits the studious environment. Dignified, cozy even. Only a strange plate on the floor, odd target-esque lines running across it, feels out of place.

I’m frowning at the object, trying to figure out what it might be, when Hanneman glides around the desk and clears his throat. “Remarkable, isn’t it? A Crest analyzer, one of my own design.”

I point at the plate. “This thing can detect Crests?”

“Among other things,” he says, smiling proudly. “But yes, it can. That is why you’re here. Miss Pendergast, will you please place a hair onto one of the groves and extend your arm above?”

Casually asking for hair, not creepy at all. “It needs hair?”

Hanneman nods, hovering by the machine. “It has to know who you are, doesn’t it? Go ahead, Miss Pendergast.”

Hesitant, I comb my fingers through my tresses, a couple loose hairs coming free. I press them into the Crest analyzer’s crevices, skeptical how this is effective. Standing, I shoot Hanneman a look. “Will this hurt?”

“Oh, dreadfully so, I’m afraid.” His mustache twitches. When I blanch he chuckles lightly. “A joke, my dear. It is entirely painless. Now, your arm, please.”

Scowling at his attempted levity, I thrust my arm into the air with more force than necessary. The Crest analyzer hums, faint and low. There’s a fuzzy feeling against my skin. Purple ribbon of light emanate from the contraption, whirling and winding, breaking apart into specks. They float upward, shimmering until united as one large sphere. A pattern of white lines appears in the middle, hovering. And then it vanishes, all traces of the purple light fading. I keep my arm in place for a while longer before letting it fall. My Crest. No, not mine. _Hers_. That… entity in the void.

The aftermath of silence concerns me a little. I turn to Hanneman, who’s scribbling in a notebook. His pallor suggests excitement but also more. “Uh, professor?” I begin. “Is there a verdict?”

He taps the pen on the page. “Yes and no. That you have a Crest, there is no doubt. What that Crest is… well, I cannot say for certain yet.”

Isn’t he supposed to be some kind of international authority on Crests? If he doesn’t know, then who the hell could? “That’s it?”

“Miss Pendergast, are you in any way related to Professor Byleth?” Hanneman asks his notes rather than me.

Byleth? Christ, I’d hate to imagine the fucked up genealogy of that family tree. No offense, Jeralt. “No. Definitely not.”

“I see.” More scrawling, pen flitting. He doesn’t bother elaborating until finishing his notes. “Your Crests both perplex me and bear a striking similarity to one another. They are not quite the same but close enough that it warrants further investigation.”

A connection with Byleth. Did Demon God Lady do something to her too? Should I tell Hanneman about it? Part of me wants to. The knowledge might help him figure all this out. But I saw how Rhea looked at me. I don’t trust her. No, explaining to Hanneman what happened is not an option. I’ll just have to hope for now that his research reveals something useful.

I step back towards the door. “Am I free to go now?”

He starts, as if he had forgotten I was still standing here. “Yes, yes. Apologies for keeping you. There is much to be done. I shall call you back again soon, Miss Pendergast. For now, though, you may go.”

Whether he hears my hasty goodbye or not doesn’t really matter; I’m more than ready to be anywhere else. ‘Else’ in this case meaning shoveling fancy food into my face. Assuming that massive blond dude from Golden Deer hasn’t eaten it all yet.

Thankful the dining hall isn’t far from the administrative building, I arrive while there are still plenty of students eating or chatting after their meal. I spot Annette and Mercedes sharing a table with a few other Blue Lions members. There’s generally a fair amount of house mingling at dinner—I mean, we have _Sylvain_ for Christ’s sake—but this time it’s just our house.

And I spoke too soon. The last person I want to see right now sits down with the Blue Lions: Byleth. She must have gotten here around when I did, a little earlier judging by the fresh plate of food. Wonderful.

I can only pray that Hanneman doesn’t go out of his way to tell Byleth about our Crests. On the one hand, she does kind of, sort of, have a right to know. On the other, she scares the shit out of me. Of course, the entire Black Eagles house is a bit intimidating, what with no nonsense Edelgard and her lackey Mister Creepy McVampire Pants.

Regretfully forgoing saghert and cream for the verona stew, I settle down in the open space beside Annette. Byleth nods at my arrival then shoves half a fish into her mouth, staring all the while. My return smile is strained, to say the least.

“Piper!” Annette beams, gently placing her fork on the edge of her plate. “Professor Hanneman didn’t keep you long! That’s good right?”

Byleth tilts her head, and I’m reminded that she’s a professor too. I tear my gaze away to focus on Annette. “Yeah, it’s all fine. He, uh, just wanted to talk about some research. Guy’s a little weird, you know?”

Lying to Annette feels bad—I might even tell her the truth later. Just not in front of Byleth.

“He should have invited me as well!” Annette huffs but breaks into an unrestrained giggle. “I’ll get him to show me that famous Crest analyzer one day. But I’m glad you’re not in trouble, Piper.”

Mercedes agrees in her willowy voice, and conversation lapses into a comfortable rhythm.

“Ah.”

At first it isn’t clear who spoke. Slowly, our heads turn to Byleth. The other half of her fish has disappeared.

“Hanneman used the Crest analyzer on me,” Byleth says, as if we hadn’t already moved past the topic. Her gaze flits between Annette and me. “It tickled a little.”

I’ve only heard Byleth speak in passing before. Obviously, other people hear her more often; she’s a teacher here. But it’s odd. Her voice isn’t just calm. It’s affectless. Not quite a robotic monotone, just… balanced. She already freaks me the fuck out. This doesn’t help.

Annette leans forward. “Professor! Tell me more! Oh, this is so cool! What did it show you? What’s your Crest, Professor?”

Byleth peers at her empty dish. “He did not know. I don’t either.”

The ensuing pause is a tad awkward. Annette sags, deflating like an old tire. “That’s strange. An unknown Crest?” I notice that Annette presses her index finger into the palm of her other hand when she’s thinking. A habit, maybe.

“He asked for some blood. To help study my Crest. I gave it to him.” Byleth holds out her hand suddenly. We all flinch. A tiny scab covers the tip of her ring finger.

Blood? Hanneman didn’t mention needing that. Geezer probably conveniently left it out to ask me at a later date when my guard is down. Fortunately for the situation at hand, Sylvain meanders past and slinks over Byleth’s shoulder, delivering a shameless line. I think he actually likes that she doesn’t give a reaction. Ingrid, however, certainly does react, and once again the Blue Lions are embroiled in laughter. I eek out a polite smile. Hard to be cheerful with Byleth staring.

I excuse myself to place my barely half-eaten bowl of stew on the dirty dishes rack. So much for a relaxing meal. Sighing, I turn to rejoin Annette and the others. My forehead almost collides with Byleth’s. She sidesteps impassively, her hand a steadying force on my shoulder.

“Thanks,” I say, shuffling away from her touch. “Later then, Professor.”

“Did it tickle for you?” Byleth watches me, eyes tracking.

“Excuse me?”

“The Crest analyzer. Do you think it tickled?”

The uncomfortable prickling I get whenever Byleth’s attention is directed at me intensifies. My fingers grasp the hem of my skirt. “What? Were you spying on me?”

Byleth shakes her head. “No.” I wait for an explanation that doesn’t come.

“Then what _were_ you doing? How do you know what happened?”

Her expression, or lack thereof, betrays nothing. “My father’s office is nearby. I overheard and came to investigate before heading here.”

I can hear my teeth grinding, feel the locked tension in my jaw. “That’s called _spying_.”

She doesn’t make sense. No matter how I look at her, she doesn’t make sense. Byleth is just… strange. And I hate that I can’t understand her thinking, what’s going on behind those blank eyes. It scares me. She scares me. I want no part of that.

Wordlessly, I brush past. Who cares if she’s a professor? I don’t owe her anything.

Her hand closes around my wrist, not tight or firm, enough of a squeeze that I stop. “Did it tickle?” she asks again.

What the fuck? What is this woman’s problem? “Why?” I hiss. “Why does it matter? Yes! Yes it fucking tickled! Like when you get feeling back in your arm after it falls asleep. There! Are you fucking happy now?”

Byleth’s fingers loosen. She stares. Stares and stares like always. Then her lips curve, a phantom smile, brief but there. “So we’re the same.”

Chills. Down my spine, across my arms and legs, spreading everywhere to every nerve. We are not the same. Not remotely. Byleth and that tiny grin, that self-assuredness. Look away. Away away away. I can’t muster a response, so I flee. Anywhere that isn’t in front of her. My brain isn’t getting enough oxygen. I need to breathe. Breathe breathe breathe. Where am I?

The pond.

I’m at the pond.

Specifically, the modest bait shop on the dock. The merchant gives me a cautious look, full of arched eyebrows and wary. I smile the best I can, and he busies himself inspecting a hook that seems perfectly fine. Another person who thinks I’m nuts. I sigh, spacing my inhales and exhales evenly. So what? I _don’t_ fit in. And if the magical Fender Stratocaster is any indication, I don’t think Demon God Lady wanted me to.

My whole life I’ve yearned to stand out. Now that I am, hiding is all I can think about.

Fódlan isn’t the stage I wanted. No spotlights and fans, no lighters gently waving back and forth in the dark. Just a sense of impending dread and a Crest I don’t understand. Tears. They flow so easily. More than they ever have. That’s all I do here, isn’t it? Cry. At night, when I’m trapped with my thoughts. In class, when Hanneman talks about impossible things like conjuring fire and ice. At dinner, chewing on a piece of beef that tastes so much like home but isn’t quite right. And now, glaring at a still pond as if it might provide answers.

My red-rimmed eyes glare back, accusatory. I hate them. My nails carve crescents into the sodden wood of the dock, and I plunge my head into the pond, right through my reflection. I ignore the concerned yelp from the merchant, opening my eyes and mouth and screaming into the water. Bubbles erupt and rise past my ears. Boiling, but the only heat is the rage and fear within each burst. Only when my lungs tighten do I surface.

I sit there, skirt pooled around me, hair soaking the collar and gold-trimmed shoulders of my uniform.

“Hey, are you all right?” The merchant. I can’t tell if he cares or just wants me to stop scaring away customers.

He flinches as I stand, flinging droplets about. “I’m fine.” No one says a word when I leave. I probably wouldn’t either. ‘Don’t associate with crazy’ is a universal rule. Of course, this whole situation is insane, so I think by just existing I’m breaking it.

The evening chill seeps into my wet hair, the damp becoming uncomfortably cold. I don’t regret it, though. Regretting means I would take it back, admit that it was foolish. Instead, I tell myself the iciness means I’m alive, that my blood is warm and my heart beats. Even in Fódlan, I am alive. Demon God Lady took nearly everything from me, but she won’t take that. As long as I’m breathing, I can still find a way home.

I leave the pond behind to enter the nearby greenhouse. It’s humid inside, the kind of air that will turn my hair into a frizzed mess. I’ve haven’t been inside yet. Given how close the greenhouse is to the dormitories, I can’t think of a valid reason this is the first time I’ve done more than admire from a distance. And seeing the vibrant hues, all the purples and blues and yellows, I should have. Never been much of a flower person, but even my ignorant ass can tell these are some lovely blossoms.

Of course, I am more concerned than impressed. Because among these flowers, I see kinds I can identify. Roses. Tulips. Carnations. They look exactly like the ones from Earth. But Fódlan is not Earth. Clearly. It shouldn’t feel so… similar. The people shouldn’t be speaking English. There shouldn’t even _be_ people. At least not people who are most definitely human in all respects. There is something wrong about this place and not just the obvious.

As I pluck a rose from the soil, smell its familiar scent, I have never felt more afraid of something so close to home.

* * *

News of the upcoming mock battle between the houses buzzes around the monastery. Some of the Blue Lions—Felix, for example—seem to vibrate with an almost restless anticipation. Me, I try to make myself as unnoticeable as possible. If I see Dimitri on the grounds, I change course or hide behind a tree. Anything to ensure that he doesn’t get any ideas about choosing me for the team. Hanneman technically has final say, but we all know he’s not going to fuss much over the Crown Prince’s decisions.

Word among the students suggests that this battle isn’t just a friendly competition. It will set the tone for the entire school year. Normally, it’s just a matter of pride. But the heirs to all three major countries in Fódlan are here; winning is as much political as it is practical. As an outsider, I want to keep my hands clean. And, you know, not get my ass kicked because I have no idea how to fight. Of course, looking at some of these kids, I don’t think I’m alone in that regard. Especially that guy with the glasses in Golden Deer.

A shadow decidedly not from the tree I am sitting under passes over me. I only have to look at the massive pair of boots beside my skirt to know who it is.

Dedue stares down at me with an expression that might be considered welcoming on a different face.

“Good afternoon, Piper,” he says, dipping his head. “His Highness has been looking for you.”

Well, shit.

I lean back against the tree trunk, craning my neck to make eye contact. “Did he say why?”

“I believe he wishes to speak about the mock battle. Shall I accompany you to him?” Great. Amazing. Fabulous. Can I even refuse if he wants me to participate? Guess I’ll find out.

A thick, tanned hand extends before my nose. I accept, my own hand nearly infantile in comparison. Dedue pulls me upright, easy and smooth, like lifting a sack of foam. Though brief, I feel the roughness on his palm against my fingers, callouses of labor and lightly sanded wood. He could crush every bone in my hand if he wanted. But his grip is only tight enough to prevent my slipping from it.

Dedue lets my hand fall away immediately after I’m on my feet. I wonder if he felt my hardened fingertips, products of years playing guitar. Not like Dedue would say anything. Idle observations aren’t really his style.

I trail a few paces behind as we walk the short distance to the Blue Lions’ homeroom. Every once in while, Dedue looks back, his head barely turned. Escorting people comes naturally to him, which I suppose makes sense given his relationship with Dimitri. His stride never leaves me struggling to keep up despite his long gait.

We enter the homeroom to the sight of Dimitri’s troubled gaze following a retreating Felix. To be honest, I ignore Felix whenever possible, and he does the same to me. It works for us. But I’ve noticed the cold way he regards Dimitri, colder than usual for Felix. Probably some kind of history there. No doubt Felix is to blame.

Felix shoulders past us, Dedue eyeing him. “Is everything all right, Your Highness?” he asks Dimitri once Felix disappears out of sight.

Dimitri sighs, settling himself into a chair. “Yes, nothing out of the ordinary. You know how Felix can be.” His attention turns to me, and a small smile replaces his frown. “Piper, I hope the day finds you well.”

“Can’t complain.” I actually can. A lot. About many, many things. “You wanted to see me?”

He gestures to the nearest chair while Dedue slots into place beside him, remaining standing. “Please. Sit. I have something important to ask.”

This doesn’t bode well. My fingernails scratch the buttons on my uniform as I join him. He doesn’t give me a chance to speak. “I will be plain, Piper,” Dimitri begins. “I want you to partake in the mock battle.”

I shake my head, perhaps more vigorously than intended. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea—”

“You have something the rest of us don’t, Piper.” His interruption is brisk, efficient, princely. “I’ve felt the effects of your guitar, remember? It’s… invigorating. It would be foolish not to apply that magic to the battlefield.”

It’s impossible to prevent the sinking sensation in my chest. Dimitri has been kind and considerate. But right now, I feel like an object. A tool. It shouldn’t bother me—he just wants to win the mock battle. It does, though.

“What if I don’t want to?” Defiance is good. Defiance means I matter.

He smiles, the reassuring kind that acts as a blanket. “No one will force you, Piper. I wouldn’t ask this of you if I did not feel you could give us an edge. Claude has his schemes. Edelgard is shrewd and intelligent. I want the Blue Lions to make a statement that we are no pushovers.”

Dimitri is persuasive. Leaders generally are. But I resist. “You don’t need me to win.”

“Perhaps not,” he says, still smiling. “However, I like our chances better with you there. Your songs can give us energy beyond what’s normal. All you have to do is play, not fight.”

Something tells me this is a slippery slope. Accept once and then you end up accepting again. And again. And suddenly you’re knee deep in the muck without an escape. When I took Rhea’s offer to live here at Garreg Mach, I didn’t fully understand what this place was. I don’t now either, but I know enough to recognize that being a ‘good student’ will exponentially increase the odds of me winding up lying in a shithole field with a sword in my gut. The opposite of ‘good.’

I stand, and Dimitri’s brows lower, framing his eyes unpleasantly. “Sorry, but I can’t,” I say, tucking the chair under the desk. “You’re all here to become great officers and serve your country. I get that. But I’m not from Faerghus, and I’m only here because I have nowhere else to go.”

He takes this in silently. A look passes between Dimitri and Dedue, the latter deferential to his liege. I’m close to simply leaving when Dimitri stands as well. “It is true that you have no allegiance to Faerghus. In your situation, I doubt I would feel any different. Yet, you _are_ a Blue Lion. Even if you have nowhere to go now, it need not always be so. Give me a chance to show you what camaraderie can be like.”

An image of Annette, injured, avoidable if she’d just had a little more energy to spare, supplants my budding objection. It’s insane. Absolutely insane. It’s also wrong to say no, isn’t it? To refuse when I really do have the ability to help. My pursed lips loosen, my shoulders slacken, and Dimitri grins. He knows he won.

“Fine. Fine, I give up. I’ll do the stupid battle thing,” I say, trying to pretend I don’t enjoy Dimitri and Dedue’s pleased expressions. “But no swords or anything. Just my guitar. And I _will_ run away if Edelgard or someone charges at me with an axe.”

His chuckle is warm. “Well, the practice weapons are all wooden. Not that Edelgard swinging a fake axe isn’t formidable.”

My scowl seems to only amuse him more. It doesn’t annoy me as much as I’d like. He’s an inviting person, laughing with me and not at me. I can’t share his mirth, but it feels less lonely knowing I’m the reason he’s smiling. Slippery slope.

Very slippery.

Dimitri departs amid encouraging words and the promise that Dedue won’t allow any wayward blows to land on my head. I’ll be joining the house training sessions as well, supplementary afternoon drills separate from the standard lessons (which I have dutifully skipped). No sparring for me, though. Apparently. Just testing my guitar’s affects. Which is good. Picturing Felix’s smug face as he wallops me has my steps turning into stomps.

Since there’s limited time before the mock battle, I’m supposed to start today. My stomach knots, clenching as an acidic vice. It’s only noon, and the prospect of sitting through Hanneman’s lectures with this on mind sounds awful. Lunch and a stroll. That’s much more tolerable. It’s not liking cutting class isn’t basically in my DNA anyways.

The dining hall is in full lunch rush when I arrive. Some Blue Lions are here, chatting among themselves, but I don’t want a repeat of the other day. Grabbing a fish sandwich—Seteth’s little sister raves about them—I carry my meal into the maze of hedgerows outside. Normally, the gazebo has students drinking tea or whatnot inside, but it’s empty at the moment. A breeze sweeps under the pavilion as I sit. Almost relaxing. The fish fillet in my sandwich is crisp and buttery, the tang of something like tartar sauce complementing the fried batter. I close my eyes and allow myself the indulgence of peace.

I open them to Byleth.

The last quarter of my sandwich slips from my grasp and falls onto the stone below, the sad result of an unwelcome surprise. Her eyes track my lunch all the way down, blinking at the splatter.

“I’m sorry,” she says to the sandwich. “That looked nice.”

I recover enough brainpower to fold my arms across my chest. “It was. Before you made me drop it.”

“I’ll get you another.”

“No. Please don’t.”

She regards me like a someone trying to assign shapes to clouds. “Don’t you like fish?”

“I’m full, OK?” Byleth nods, mollified. A predictably frustrating silence ensues. Why is she here? My least favorite person this side of Demon God Lady can’t seem to leave me the hell alone. “Do you want something?”

Byleth tilts her head in a manner I am beginning to realize is characteristic. “You are a student. I am a professor. It is my job to check on you.”

Maybe from a guidance counselor that wouldn’t sound like a chef determining the pinkness of a steak. Byleth is unfortunately—fortunately—not a guidance counselor. “Yeah, but you’re not my professor. Hanneman is.” To be fair, Hanneman seems about as adept at counseling as a turnip is at astrophysics.

She considers this, her immutable eyes absorbing my person. I search for a flicker of something, anything, within. Her glossy blue irises reflect everything except what she’s thinking. I look at my hands clasped on the table.

“We have things in common,” she says, and I glance up from under my eyelashes to see her staring. “New here. Not many friends. Unknown Crests… We both like fish.” I meet her eyes upon the last one, my jaw slightly slack. Really? That’s worth mentioning?

My back is rigid against the painted gazebo railing. “We are nothing alike. You don’t know a thing about me.”

An emotion that resembles pain sparks in her eyes, in the small dip of her lips. Have I been too harsh? Do I care? Byleth should recognize I’m uncomfortable and stop.

“I know you are afraid,” Byleth says. What incredible powers of observation, professor. Maybe take a hint then.

When my only response is a scalding glare, she continues. “It is normal. People feel scared in unfamiliar places.” I don’t like how she says that, as if ‘people’ doesn’t apply to her. “I was hoping you might talk to me.”

“What could I possibly have to talk to you about?”

“Our Crests.”

I don’t even really know what the fuck a Crest is. Hanneman said some magic-y, pseudoscientific horseshit, and that’s it. And I definitely never wanted to come to _Byleth_ about the subject. Especially given what Hanneman said. No, I want to be far, far away.

“If we are related somehow,” Byleth murmurs, her voice clear but cloistered, “if we are… family—”

The splintering drag of my chair sliding over stone echoes within the gazebo. My palms are flat on the table, my feet planted as I lean down. “We are not family.” Byleth recoils, a physical reaction rather than emotional. “I don’t care about Crests or Hanneman’s research or you or whatever fucked up shit _she_ wants. All I care about is going home.”

“She?”

Fuck. Byleth rattled me. I messed up. “It’s nothing.” Too quick. Too hasty.

“Do you mean the archbishop?” Byleth looks inquisitive, nothing else.

“No. I mean yes, her too… No! No, it doesn’t matter! Look, I have to go.” Fumbled words and a racing heart—stupid. So stupid. I move around the table and Byleth, graceless. I’ve already said more than I can take back. Freaky as she may be, Byleth doesn’t strike me as an idiot. She’ll remember this.

A furtive half turn reveals Byleth is not following me. I exhale. That woman is decidedly bad for my health. Every interaction we have ends poorly. It’s difficult to comprehend that she’s Jeralt’s daughter. The conversation at the graveyard was… organic. He’s kinda crusty, but I can understand him at least. Of course, I don’t actually know Jeralt. Maybe he was a shit dad and that’s why Byleth has the emotional range of a fucking triangle. Who knows?

One thing at a time, Piper. One thing at a time. Dimitri wants you to play guitar. You can play guitar. If guitar makes me useful here, I could be doing a whole lot worse. Demon God Lady obviously wanted me to succeed. Or, you know, not die. Otherwise, I’d have nothing, wouldn’t be a student at Garreg Mach, and would almost certainly be dead in a ditch. It grates against every molecule of pride I have to go along with what that asshole voice planned, but there’s no other choice. I’ll bide my time, learn more about this world, and when I finally do meet Demon God Lady, she’ll regret ever giving me this power.

Skipping afternoon lessons allows me to rest before training. My mind is too jumbled to properly nap, but just lying in bed away from everything feels good. I pull the Stratocaster from under my mattress, where I’ve decided to hide it when I can’t bring it with me. When was the last time I played anything just for myself? No audience. No one listening. Before I was sent here, I know that.

I sit cross-legged, guitar propped in my lap like I used to in my bedroom back home. Energy—magic—thrums, a mysterious current, as I touch the strings. I may never be used to it. I’m not sure I want to be used to it. I pluck a note. I hear it, and I sense it. The transfer of something… ethereal from the guitar to my fingers, or my fingers to the guitar, a loop. I set the Fender on the duvet, the urge to play gone.

Not because I don’t love it. Not because I don’t cherish listening to the music I make, knowing I’m responsible for all those sounds. But because it’s not just music anymore. It’s a weapon. No one wants me to play music, art, songs that are simply songs. They want the magic. Playing the guitar isn’t about fun when it can do these things.

Demon God Lady took my home, my parents, my friends, everything I know. And then she took music as well. Perverted it from familiar to unfathomable. I hate her for it. A separate hate. The hate that wants to make her pay. That first night on the road I played thinking I was in charge, but it was her. Lurking beneath the strings, manipulating. The worst kind of manipulation, the kind that lies while it reassures, whispers that you’re important while using you. I played because she told me to. Indelible legacy, was it? Never again, Demon God Lady.

I reclaimed part of my music with Annette. Our song that wasn’t about magic. Can I do that again? Can I _play_?

I snatch my Fender Stratocaster, nestling it against my chest and thighs.

She cannot have this. She cannot have my music.

And so I play. I play every song I’ve ever written. I play them, and I lean into the swirling magic, morphing it into my own possession. Mine. All mine. Not hers. This guitar has all the wear and scuffs I created over years of use. It is my instrument.

I bring my hand down hard on the final chord. The ringing fades. Turbulent magic, essence entwined within strands of my hair, calms. I smile.

This is _my_ magic.


	4. Performance

I cradle my hand as a fresh bruise swells on my knuckles.

Felix rests a training sword on his shoulder, smug and smirking. "Hardly surprising that you cannot block a single strike."

I knew I should have never imagined this exact scenario. Self-fulfilling prophecy and all. No sparring? Just guitar playing? Lies. 'Piper, let's see how you do under pressure.' Which, of course, means running away from Felix while trying to play "Stairway to Heaven." Impossible, just to be clear. One of greatest guitar solos of all time, and they can't appreciate it because Felix values smacking things with his big stick above all else.

"Yeah, I'm going to use my guitar for that. Great idea, Felix," I say, shooting him my most withering glare. If Fendy breaks, I'm screwed.

He shrugs. "Only fools carry a single weapon into battle." I think I hate him. Every word out of his mouth carries a condescending lilt. But I hate more that he's right. He's _always_ right about this kind of thing. Felix is an arrogant brat. An arrogant brat who understands sword fighting and battles.

Dimitri slides gracefully between us, that mediating smile easy on his face. "Hostility is unnecessary, friends," he says to us both in equal measure. "Piper, you need not be a skilled fencer, but continuing to play is your main goal. Felix, give Piper some leeway. She's new to this."

"Whatever, _Boar Prince_." Felix speaks with venom, a confusing disdain. If there's someone Felix dislikes more than me, it's Dimitri. It's odd enough that he addresses the crown prince of his country in such a manner—I rationalize it as just the boldness of high ranking nobility. Does he not fear repercussions? I'd at least fear the extremely displeased scowl Dedue wears.

Felix spits into the training arena dirt and sidelines himself. Not much of a team player. Watching Dimitri's pained expression twinges my heart a bit. It's so obvious that he wants to be friends with Felix. With all of the Blue Lions. Personally, I think that's unrealistic; you'll never be friends with everyone, especially as a leader. But I respect the effort. Also, Felix is a dick. _He_ should make an effort to be civil to Dimitri.

"I apologize on his behalf, Piper," Dimitri says. "None of this is easy, I know. I should have been more careful with our drills."

My inflamed hand agrees. I don't say that out loud, but I gather he can probably tell. Part of me wants to throw a tantrum, yell and hurl a couple things like an entitled toddler. It would feel cathartic, I'm sure. It would also serve no real purpose past those few minutes. I'd leave in a huff only to regret it all later. No, the best thing to do is keep practicing. I have precisely one use, and it's why I'm at Garreg Mach. Neglecting that is the stupidest thing I could do for my long term survival.

I pluck a few test notes and hiss. It's no good. Moving along the fretboard causes needling pangs that affect my accuracy. Dimitri steps closer, inspecting my fingers without touching.

He sighs, not frustrated, only tired. "Don't try and force yourself," he says. "Sit until Mercedes can heal you."

"Felix was right." A puff of sand dissipates into the air when I flop onto the ground. "I'm just a burden if I can't protect myself."

There's a moment of silence before he settles beside me. He maintains polite distance, chaste I suppose, like a boy at a dance chaperoned by parents. Dimitri looks at me, then his hands, then me again. It's weirdly refreshing to meet someone whose thoughts are so plainly written in his actions. Most people just talk without thinking. Dimitri chooses his words. Growing up in the royal court probably instilled a habit of delicacy.

"Piper," he says at last, "you come from a background in the arts, yes? A performer. Used to stages and crowds?"

Dimitri's attention does not drift to his hands again. He watches, waiting for my reply. I nod. It's a good enough answer. I'm reluctant to elaborate, and I sense that Dimitri is building to something.

He smiles. "Tell me, how do you believe I would fare on stage like you?"

Well, he's charismatic. Dimitri gives quality speeches and leads the Blue Lions confidently. That's not really the same, though. "Assuming you don't play any instruments or sing, the audience might get bored," I say, frowning.

"There you have it!" Dimitri exclaims. Laughter, full and warm, follows. "I am a novice at such things. Just as you are a novice at this. But with time and effort, we improve. You are not a burden, Piper. We work together because we all possess different skills."

Continuing to pout after hearing Dimitri's pep talk proves difficult. I can't prevent the little bend of my lips as he chuckles. Despite my not being from Faerghus, Dimitri treats me like any other Blue Lion. He wants me to feel like I'm a part of this. Is it OK to take comfort in that? To allow myself a sliver of belonging?

"Thank you," I say, fingers drawing shallow canyons in the dirt.

Yes. Just a sliver.

Mercedes does her rounds, sending pulses of magic—convenient stuff by the way—into our various training mishaps. The discoloration on my knuckles fades with the throbbing. I stretch and wiggle my fingers, marveling at the literal magic. Mercedes seems to enjoy the reaction, giggling in that sisterly way of hers. I think she genuinely enjoys helping people in general. Which is… a novel concept to a person raised in the Chicago metro.

Refreshed and not so glum, I resume my position on the training ground. The chords flow, energy cocoons the area, and the now nearly familiar sensation of profound vitality floods my veins. Everyone around me laps up the song, drinking in speed and strength and heightened senses. I do this. Me. A concert of perspiration, of dust caked boots and determination, the heat of victory. It fuels the scene. Music.

Enter Felix. He weaves through myriad duels, occasionally parrying a wayward thrust. Erratic, hard to follow, a pattern lacking pattern—Felix moves to a rhythm in constant flux. It taunts my melody. My playing slips as he nears, souring the air. I know I must run or impede his progress or anything that will free me to use my guitar. But he's here already. Sneering, derisive, smacking my arm with insulting smoothness.

"Shit," I curse, clutching the aching welt. Felix grins, no mirth and all haughty pride. I've never wanted to hit another person so badly. He humiliates me over and over, and he _likes_ it. The fact he's a noble makes it worse. Like Felix is a rich asshole entertaining himself with the failures of his lessers. But from what I've seen, Felix could be a penniless tramp, and he'd still be an asshole.

"You're an idiot," Felix says, bluntly acerbic. "I keep thinking you'll realize, but you take the same actions each time."

Alright, I'm done. "You know what, Felix? Fuck you. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. I know you think I'm just a weak girl with no talent or ability, but you're a shithead. Go polish your saber, you fucking nob."

He blinks rapidly, lips parted. I expect an affronted grimace, not merely… surprise. What, Felix? So used to dishing out the abuse that you don't know what to do when you get a taste? I fold my arms, taking the opportunity to look smug myself.

Felix passes a hand through his hair, tapping the bun. "No one has ever spoken to me like that," he says. "Ingrid likes to nag, but that was more… interesting."

"Interesting? You call that _interesting_?" Is he brain damaged? Infuriating. Completely infuriating. Does he not take me seriously at all?

"You swear like an Alliance port merchant." Felix studies me head to toe. "But you look like a dainty Empire lady whose only exercise is lifting her teacup."

I glance over myself reflexively. I'm normal. For Earth. For America. A place where the average person doesn't have to till fields to feed themselves. I didn't think about it, but in Fódlan probably only nobles or wealthy elites get to live like that. Most people think I was a traveling bard or something before I arrived at Garreg Mach. Even that life would have rigors I've not experienced. I'm soft from modern luxuries.

"I am not dainty," I say as a feeble defense.

Felix rolls his eyes. "I know plenty of nobles like you. Coasting along on their privilege. All while complaining. I'll concede you're mildly intriguing in the basest sense, but you should return to whatever gilded cage you ran away from."

His assumption could not be further from the truth, but it hurts all the same. "I'm not… That's not—"

"Spare me your nonsense," he interrupts. "I've heard your story. Ridiculous. Which family are you from, really? Empire? Alliance? Were you trying to avoid an arranged marriage? Maybe your husband will still take you back."

I slap Felix across the cheek. It's not something I thought I'd ever do. Slap someone. I always saw it as gratuitous. My palm stings, a livid fuzzy tingling. Everyone present stares during the silently bloated aftermath. His face reddens, from the slap or all the pairs of watching eyes, I don't know. Tears blur my vision. Someone calls my name, but I'm halfway to the exit and sprinting.

Garreg Mach is a place full of hidden alcoves, and I choose the only one I can lock: my room. Inside, I toss Fendy on the bed. It's quiet—enough that I can finally hear my own ragged breathing. My thumping heart. The sniffles and sobbing as tear streaks dry from wet to sticky. I'm seething. I'm not sure I've ever been so upset. At least not in the same way. Felix technically said nothing personal, all incorrect deductions. But it's the principle. The idea that he thinks so little of me. Even worse, he probably believes my reaction is proof that he's right. My nails burrow into my skin, leaving crescent divots.

How do I face the other Blue Lions again? I made a scene, failed to control myself. Felix deserved it, but will anyone remember that? Or just that I slapped a noble? What a mess.

I hear scuffling outside my door. Muffled whispers percolate through the wood, two people discussing something. I'm not in the mood for secrecy or gossip.

"I know you're out there, whoever you are," I say, my head leaning against the door. "You're not as stealthy as you think."

There's a startled intake of breath, pitchy and nervous. Then more whispering. "Piper, it's us, Annette and Mercie," comes the tentative response.

My instinct is to shoo them, put up a wall and sulk alone. It's the Piper Pendergast Special. Act tough, cry in private, rinse, repeat. I don't want to do that this time. They care. They're good people. Good friends. Meekly, I open the door.

Annette immediately wraps her arms around me, the intensity of her hug popping my spine. Orange ringlets brush against my chin as she buries her face in my collar. Mercedes smiles at me from behind Annette. I try to summon my own, but it comes out a grimace.

"Annette, I can't breathe."

She releases me, looking at once sheepish and concerned. "Oh, Piper, we were so worried after what happened!" Annette says, inviting herself into my dorm. "That Felix! He's such a… such a… jerkface!"

I'd laugh at the extraordinarily tame insult if she didn't seem so earnest. Every inch of her tiny frame vibrates with indignation. Annette is truly angry on my behalf. I glance at Mercedes with raised eyebrows. She gives a casual shrug and sits on the end of my bed, patting the space to her right.

"You two didn't have to check on me." I shut the door and sit with Mercedes. "Felix is… Felix. He's always saying rude stuff."

Annette plops down on my other side, a flurry of sighs and bouncing hair. "Of course we had to. We're friends."

"And Felix went too far," Mercedes says. "That kind of behavior is unacceptable."

Sandwiched between the two, I feel grateful. They aren't obligated to be here. They don't owe me anything. I begin to weep. Some real ugly crying, fat teardrops and snot. Mercedes rubs my upper back while Annette rests her head on my shoulder. Neither one speaks until my breakdown subsides, just gentle presences letting me know I'm not alone.

"I-I'm sorry," I choke out.

Mercedes shakes her head and offers a handkerchief. "You don't need to apologize. You did nothing wrong."

" _Felix_ is the one who should be sorry." Annette's nose crinkles.

I dab my eyes with the handkerchief and fight the urge to simply say 'sorry' on a five second timer. I've always been one of those people who ends up apologizing for apologizing if I'm not careful. It's a miserable loop I'd rather all three of us avoid. When I was a waitress on weekday nights, I learned that gratitude trumps groveling. Thank the customer for their patience; don't apologize for the delay. Annette and Mercedes aren't customers, but they are supportive friends.

"Thank you." Sincerity and a wan smile. "For being here. It means a lot to me."

"It's our pleasure. Adjusting to Garreg Mach is not easy. We want to make you feel at home." Mercedes squeezes my arm lightly, her thumb tracing a slow circle. Maternal.

We sit together a long while, still except for the occasional adjustment. It's peaceful. It's what I need, that tranquil layer of relaxation I can use to reorient myself. Banish loneliness and insecurity. Friends like Annette and Mercedes make all the difference. Without the tether they provide, living in Fódlan would be so much more nightmarish. If I close my eyes and focus on Annette's humming, on Mercedes's dulcet murmurs, I can almost forget where I am.

In this isolated moment of serenity, Felix and his acid judgment feel distant. "Hey," I say, mild, content. "I'm doing better, I think. You both really helped."

Annette stretches, raising her arms above her head and then down to touch her toes. "You can always count on us, Piper," she says cheerily, standing. "I don't usually stay in one spot this long! We should go for a walk!"

A walk, huh? It's evening, sun about to set and most of the students indoors. Curfew isn't until after nightfall, so we have some time. And Annette _does_ look eager. Mountain air and good company is tough to beat. On another day I might prefer seclusion, but more than a stroll, I don't want to stare at my walls and do nothing once Annette and Mercedes leave. Pathetic as it may be, their kindness staves off the worst of my anxious thoughts.

I'm still in the process of agreeing when Annette hooks her arm around mine. Her seemingly boundless energy pairs well with Mercedes, who curbs the excess and absorbs everything like a very compassionate sponge. As we walk I mainly listen. In fairness, so does Mercedes. Annette recounts anecdotes from the School of Sorcery, a discursive series of tales that has Mercedes nodding along. I don't begrudge Annette for the bevy of conversation—it normalizes the day, ends it on a note of friendship and levity. It's also pretty entertaining to hear Annette describe the time she accidentally set fire to the kitchens and was subsequently handed a permanent ban from cooking for the entirety of her education.

Thank God Garreg Mach has a dedicated chef.

Our walk carries us to the bridge connecting the main administrative building to the cathedral. It's deserted save a lone guard manning the gate. Personally, I think the 24/7 security is a little much for a church, but apparently there's an important mausoleum underneath. Creepy tomb full of old bones? No thanks.

"I believe I'll go for an evening prayer," Mercedes says, staring fondly at the cathedral. "Would either of you care to join me?"

Two weeks here, and I've yet to actually enter the church. I could argue that I just haven't gotten around to it, but I know it's because the place unnerves me. Religion wasn't my thing on Earth. The Church of Seiros is doubly not my thing in Fódlan. While I've gathered that not being a believer won't get me crucified or subjected to the inquisition, I give the knights and priests a wide berth. The Church is powerful as far as I can tell, as powerful as the Catholic Church during the Middle Ages. Waltzing into a sacred space and inadvertently desecrating Seiros's holy asscheeks sounds like a one-way ticket to the dungeon. For a heathen such as myself, I'm guessing the Church's generosity is not limitless.

"If it's alright with you," I say, leaning against the rampart, "I'll wait here, and then we can all head back to the dorms when you're done."

Mercedes frowns, her fingers toying with her shawl. "At least come inside, Piper. You don't need to pray if you don't want to."

"Yeah, it's fine, Piper," Annette adds. "I don't pray too often either. But I come with Mercedes a lot since the cathedral is so lovely."

Admittedly, it would be awkward and depressing to refuse in favor of idling on the bridge. With Annette around I doubt I'll commit any egregious faux pas. I might even learn something. Could be nice not faking understanding whenever Seiros is mentioned so I don't look like a moron. Rhea and the Church frighten me, but cowering in ignorance solves nothing. This is Fódlan, not Earth. Hiding from it won't change where I am.

"Alright," I say. "I'll come. Not gonna pray, though."

Their smiles make walking through the gate and embossed bronze doors less daunting. The interior elicits my own unexpected smile. The Garreg Mach Cathedral is gorgeous. I've never been to Rome, but it rivals all the pictures of Saint Peter's Basilica that I have seen. Sunbeams travel down from the dome's stained glass windows, smattering the grand central mosaic in a shimmering rainbow tide. Robust rectangular pillars line the entire length of the church, each crowned with a golden sculpture of flowers wreathing the Crest of Seiros. It's the only Crest I know and only because it's everywhere in Garreg Mach. The cathedral displays it proudly—on the walls, the floor, the glass behind the pulpit. There is no mistake who this place honors.

I spin as we amble between the rows of pews, trying to memorize the architecture in the absence of a camera. Incredible that people built something like this up in the mountains. It shines. Glows with light that suggests an earlier hour. Magic? Woven within the stone? I see why the devout worship here, why Mercedes prays. To people who want to believe in something, it would be easy to imagine the goddess resides in those tinted rays of sun refracting from every vaulted arch.

"I said it was lovely, didn't I?" Annette circles one of the columns, her head and dangling curls emerging on the other side.

My hand grazes the stone, palming the smooth granite, and I feel like I'm a child attempting to futilely stretch across a sequoia. "You did."

She finishes her trip around the pillar with a twirl. "Just a couple buildings in Fhirdiad compare to this one. So much history and knowledge. And we get to study it here at Garreg Mach!"

I can smile at her zeal even if I don't share it. "You really love learning, don't you?"

"Of course! It's challenging and fun and always surprising. Every question has an answer if you search hard enough." Her gaze turns contemplative. "Where you're from, Piper, are there places like this?"

The problem with an inquisitive friend is that she's inquisitive. So far, I've evaded most inquiries with vague explanations. Honestly, people ask about the guitar more than me. When the subject of my homeland does come up, 'across the sea' seems to be a serviceable response. But Annette is different. She likes details and stories and unraveling mysteries.

I plaster on a nonchalant expression. "Churches? I think those are common no matter where you are," I say, shrugging and looking about. "Do you see Mercedes?"

Annette puts her hands on her hips. "She's over by the altar. Praying. Now, come on, Piper! Give me a real answer."

Deflection failed. Typical. "Fine. Yes. There are." Her rapt eyes are prompting, curious. "Beautiful structures and whatnot. Everyone likes nice things."

"Tell me about one."

Dangerous. This is dangerous. Everyone knows I'm a foreigner. I already get comments about how 'great my Adrestian' is. If anyone digs too deep, my story falls apart. Not from Fódlan but speaks the language perfectly. Not from Fódlan but has a Crest. Not from Fódlan but ethnically looks exactly like the average citizen. Seteth probably thinks I'm just a remarkably shitty spy. However, the truth is impossible. It's no wonder Felix called bullshit. So, I need a story. A good one.

It can start now, with Annette.

"Are you familiar with pyramids?" Given the dome on this cathedral, I assume geometry is practiced in Fódlan.

Annette chuckles, an amiably bemused noise. "You mean like the shape?"

Thank you, unknown Fódlan mathematician for your contributions. "Yes, exactly," I say. "Well, where I'm from, a long time ago some people built giant pyramids, bigger than this church, from stone that served as tombs for ancient kings. The largest one's sides are even almost perfectly aligned to the four directions."

Her lips part and close several times as her eyes begin to gleam with interest. "That's amazing," she finally says. "Did they use wyverns to cart the stones? Lying stones so precisely that high above the ground… Wyverns had to be involved."

I bet the Egyptians wished they had wyverns to haul that shit. "As far as I know, they did it all with pulleys and levers and people. A lot of people."

Annette scrunches her face; if humans buffered, this is what it would look like. "Whoa," she mumbles. "I'd love to see it someday."

Me too, Annette. Me too. Thankfully, the pyramids sate her for now, an exotic conundrum to ponder. Tidbits, nuggets of information that cannot be confirmed or denied—it creates a foundation. A homeland that is not a lie and not a full truth. I will layer it, pad the truth with plausible elements. I speak the language because people from Fódlan discovered and settled my land long ago. Explains my idiosyncrasies too. I look like them for the same reason. My Crest as well, should Hanneman or Byleth ever spill the beans. It's outrageous, the kind of backstory so far-fetched people will want to believe it. Because the world is vast, and it's human nature to explore, to dream about what lies beyond the horizon.

And it gives me, lost and adrift beyond the horizon of all horizons, a way not to lose myself to it all. I am in Fódlan, not Earth, but where I'm from matters. It will always matter.

* * *

Training for the mock battle continues unhindered. Felix has not apologized, and I'm not exactly waiting with baited breath for it. We treat each other like disease infested cockroaches, interacting only when there is no alternative. Dedue replaces him as my sparring partner. Or rather, the person who dutifully taps me on the head with his training axe when I fail to defend myself. He's markedly more polite about it than Felix. Maintaining composure with a man Dedue's size chasing me takes getting used to, but I can now safely say he catches me due to my incompetence instead of fear. How very reassuring.

I know in the actual mock battle he'll be the one guarding me. In the training skirmishes, no one is doing that. Having a crutch is nice, but if I can't perform under the most stressful scenario, what use am I? It's maddening.

"Hey."

The water in my canteen suddenly tastes like bile as I hear Felix's voice. He glares in that special arrogant dickgoblin way Felix excels at. "What?" I snap.

Felix exhales as if the air in my vicinity is tainted. "I can't stand watching you blunder through training anymore," he says. "The boar said to let you realize on your own, but you're going to get us all killed one day with your stupidity."

Slapping him in the face obviously didn't deter any future instances of being a gaping asshole. "Don't you have anything else to do? I kinda thought we had an unspoken agreement to pretend the other doesn't exist."

"Do you want be useful or not?" His scowl is vinegar and lemons. "This is a one time offer."

I reckon there's a 50/50 chance that whatever advice he wants to dispense will be another surly dig. Though, Felix did mention Dimitri and something I'm supposed to figure out. Which, gallingly, I am not. This smug bastard relishes belittling me, but I can't be selfish. My skill level is atrocious. The one thing I _can_ do—play guitar—sometimes feels like a negligible benefit at best. Felix knows I know. God, how aggravating.

"OK, Felix, impart your wisdom, great sage," I say, keeping my face dryly blank.

He clucks his tongue and squints. "Mockery makes you sound foolish," Felix growls. "Regardless, you don't improve because you have no control. All you do is play without thought."

A pithy retort bubbles up my throat before I silence it. Pride is a deadly sin, Piper. Literally in Fódlan. "I've played guitar since I was seven. If you think too much while playing, you won't play at all."

"That's not what I mean." I bet even first in line, Felix would be impatient. "You think playing is enough. It's not. Your magic goes everywhere, to everyone. Do you get it?"

Shame collects in my gut, instant and vicious. The speed of Felix and Dedue's attacks, their disorienting approaches, always accurate—it makes sense. I am an idiot. This whole time I've been shooting myself in the foot. Why did I assume that the energizing magic wouldn't affect them? I should have noticed. On the battlefield, my magic would be helping our opponents. That could get someone killed, just like Felix said. I glower at the ground, skin hot, Fendy heavy on my back.

I see Felix's shadow shift. "Looks like you understand. If you do, then fix it. Otherwise, go home, because you're just a nuisance."

Scathing words aside, Felix has a point. Support that also aids the enemy isn't support. It's suicide. I want to be angry with Dimitri for watching me fail repeatedly, for this plummeting embarrassment. But it's my fault. The bitter reality is that I just didn't care. About the mock battle. About the Blue Lions. I've viewed myself as separate, temporary, above whatever concerns these medieval people have. Earth is my home, but I can't go home, Felix. Not right now and maybe not ever. That thought scares me. I've raged against it, rejected it with unambiguous hatred. Taken solace in victimhood. At this moment, I'm not living or surviving.

Where I'm from matters, and so does where I am. I'll never be whole, never belong anywhere, if I try to exist in two places at once. Piper Pendergast lives at Garreg Mach Monastery with the Blue Lion House. Not Chicago. Not anymore. Piper Pendergast has two friends, Annette and Mercedes, who sat with her as she cried. Piper Pendergast has a power she can use to protect them.

I raise my head. "Felix, I want you to come at me with everything you have until the mock battle."

He scours my face, eyes flinty. I don't blink. His lips bend, a smirk, feline and crooked. "You might regret asking that."

* * *

Looking across the field from Byleth and Manuela, I think I regret a lot of things. Namely, the breakfast I ate an hour ago that is currently churning in my stomach. Is vomiting on an opposing student a foul? Will that result in a penalty? Are there even fouls and penalties?

A firm hand grips my shoulder. "Your knees are shaking, Piper." Dimitri's confident tone matches his sharp features. "Everything is fine. We have a strategy, a great one. You're ready for this."

I laugh, too shrill to be misconstrued as humor. " _Ready_ may be an overstatement."

"We are as ready as we can be," he says. "My first battle was nerve-wracking, and that was real. There is no danger to any of us here. I believe in you, so you should as well."

Dimitri has fought before? It makes sense, him being the heir to Faerghus. Do Edelgard and Claude have the same experience? Everyone at the academy is so young that it's bizarre to consider. What sort of childhoods are normal for them? A lot more nobles than commoners attend the Officers Academy, so it must be almost a rite of passage. With a disquieting pang, I wonder how many students actually want to be at Garreg Mach.

Hanneman calls Dimitri away, jabbing a finger into a diagram of the field and our position. Just as well, since I had no adequate response. I'm happy Dimitri has faith in me, but a plethora of 'what if's' shower down as pernicious doubts. What if I freeze and can't move? What if I slip and fall when I do move? What if I drop my guitar? What if, what if, what if.

I look at our team—Dimitri, Dedue, Felix, Sylvain, Ingrid, Annette, Mercedes, Ashe, and Hanneman. All the Blue Lions who scored highest on preliminary exams, plus our professor. And me, who failed the last exam with what Hanneman deemed a 'gross disregard for the basic fundamentals of academia.' I only recently started reading the material, employing Annette as my study buddy. We're making some headway, but I'm soundly behind the class. The contemptuous stares I get around the monastery from other Blue Lions aren't unfounded. People with far better grades missed out on the mock battle because of me.

At least I've gained a modicum of influence over where my guitar's magic goes. If I sacrifice some potency, I can 'direct' the flow. I have Mercedes to thank for my progress. She compares the technique to healing spells, which work due to the spellcaster condensing the magic around the target. Very proficient mages can do this to multiple people at the same time. My music seems to operate in the inverse; it soaks into everyone without any effort from me. So, in order to control it, I must thin the veil of energy in areas I do not need it.

Not particularly straightforward when magic is an invisible force one accesses via some Jedi bullshit. Therefore, I suck pretty hard. It's like nicely asking a tsunami to please not flood everything.

In the midst of my forlorn sighing, Dimitri signals for us to assemble in formation. A fresh bout of nausea punches my stomach. This is it. The mock battle. Win or lose, today determines the Blue Lions' reputation. My reputation. Whether I'm worth something or just a fluke.

Our tactic places me in the middle of a half diamond along with Annette and Mercedes. It's fitting that my two closest friends at Garreg Mach also use magic as their primary tool. To function properly we need a wall that protects us from foes, thus the diamond. Dimitri is both the literal and metaphorical spearhead, and the others flesh out the sides. True to his word, Dedue serves as a second line of defense, the answer to flanking or breaks in the wall. The diamond is a good system according to all the instruction Hanneman has relayed in class. It certainly makes me feel safer, at any rate.

Hanneman himself follows our group a few yards behind, more of a coach than a player so to speak. He says he will assist when required but that this is a learning experience for students, not a platform for professors to show off. Swallowing, I hope Byleth feels the same.

"We've got your back, Piper," Annette says from my right, a ball of green-blue coalescing in her palm. "Wind magic is my forte, and your music will make it super duper strong!"

Mercedes smiles along with Annette's words. "If you need a bruise or scrape healed, just let me know." She gestures at the human wall ahead. "But I think we're OK here."

I begin to respond, to voice jittery misgivings, but the horn sounding the start of the mock battle bellows throughout the glen. No turning back now. For the briefest moment, the insanity of the situation overwhelms me. A little more than a month ago, I was doing gigs in clubs and booking event centers. My entire life has changed, contorted into something unrecognizable. Ironic that the sole link between this life and my old one is the thing that most defines both: music.

We march forward, reaching a natural chokepoint between two copses of trees. Dimitri raises a clinched fist.

"Ashe, scout ahead to that ridge," Dimitri says, brows knitted and gaze trained on the slope where the trees disperse. "It won't do to walk into a pincer attack when we leave this grove."

Saluting, Ashe clambers up the hill. He's an industrious cinnamon roll, for sure. The time after he dips below the ridge elapses as if we're trudging through tar. When Ashe's fluffy gray head reappears, the tar evaporates, and the air is just air again.

Dimitri meets him at the hill's base. "What did you see?"

"The Black Eagles haven't moved, Your Highness. It looks like they're waiting for us," he says. Ashe hesitates, glancing back at the slope. "Claude and the Golden Deer House weren't anywhere, though."

Consternation creases Dimitri's forehead. "Nowhere to be found… What is Claude..." His eyes bulge. "Piper! Play now! Hurry!"

I fumble with the Stratocaster, raking my thumb along the strings in a twangy, undignified chord. Dimitri barks commands, tightening our diamond. Shields overlap to patch gaps. The Faerghus Fortress, textbooks refer to it as, and something we practiced in the event of an imminent charge.

Two arrows, metal tips traded for small tied pouches of sand, ricochet into the right-hand shield wall. I miss a note, the magic waning. Keep it together, Piper. Beginner stuff, scales and baby's first chord progressions. Just play.

Raphael, Golden Deer's Dedue if Dedue was a pea-brained jock, leaps from the trees. He slams against Sylvain's targe, roaring a battle cry about muscles. The guy loves being ripped so much that if eyeballs could lift weights, he'd probably train those too.

The full might of Claude's squad pours from the forest. I'm not familiar with most of the Golden Deer kids, but I can name a couple. Hilda, a fashionable girl with pink hair straight from Coachella, and Leonie, Jeralt's unrepentant sycophant. She might just admire him, but I'm a cynic.

Our line weathers the assault, Dimitri and Hanneman ordering the left side to reinforce and shifting the momentum into a deadlock. I'm thankful for the reprieve allowing me to play unharried. Though I lack the expertise to create pockets without magic for each individual Golden Deer student, I am able to cull their side of the forest at large. Not a perfect solution, but it's working well enough that we have a boost they don't.

"They opened the left flank! Lysithea, do it!"

I wheel around at Claude's shout. A girl, white hair and no taller than Annette, stands alone behind us. Fuck, this was always Claude's plan. Dark vapors encase Lysithea, swarming together until unifying as a sinister sphere. This isn't magic I've seen before. Granted, that list is only Annette's, Mercedes's, and my own. Doesn't mean this eerie ball of goop isn't creepy as shit.

Lysithea puts both palms out, and the murky orb rockets forth. It's aimed at me. Well, that's not entirely correct—it's aimed at my guitar, which happens to be attached to me. Claude is removing a troublesome obstacle from the battle. Even spells subdued with inhibitor potions knock people unconscious.

It's moving too fast. I'll never avoid it.

I squeeze my eyes closed, every muscle tensed. The impact of Lysithea's magic feels a lot like being tackled—wait.

My eyes open to the sight of Dedue's chest, his broad frame smothering me and inky fractals exploding against his back. We crash into the grass, rolling. I lose my grip on Fendy during the tumble. Shit.

Dedue and I land tangled, my body sliding off his. He grunts, and I watch as his stoic features twist. "Dedue?" I say, an invasive unease tinging my words. "Are you OK?"

He tries to speak, only managing to cough. No, this isn't right. He's too pale, the drained color evident even with his burnished skin. I taste panic on my tongue, a bitter dryness. Footsteps crunch twigs.

"You should both retire from the battle—" The voice, high and girlish, hitches. I look up to see Lysithea, her violet eyes round.

"What did you do?" I demand, standing.

She flinches. "It was a normal spell! I took the potion like everyone else!" Lysithea kneels beside Dedue. "I… this is bad. Did my Crest… Professor Manuela!"

Yes, the professors. "Hanneman!" I yell, not bothering with formality. "It's Dedue! He's hurt!"

The battle, previously heated, cools to a tepid confusion. Upon sighting his retainer, Dimitri dashes the distance in seconds. Manuela and Claude tail him, the latter uncharacteristically strained.

"Dedue!" Dimitri cries. He crouches with Lysithea. "Dedue, can you hear me?"

My giant, stupid savior heaves a wheezing breath. "Your… Highness..." Dedue's head lolls.

Dimitri stiffens. Deliberately, he turns to Lysithea, a coldness in his eyes I shirk from. "Have you no shame? Look what you did!"

Manuela shoving her way between them saves Lysithea from anything worse. She inspects Dedue how a modern doctor without any equipment might—checks his pulse, his pupils, inside his mouth. I don't like her expression.

Abruptly, she rises. Manuela whispers something to Hanneman, and the pair face the crowd of students surrounding the scene. "We are ending the mock battle," Manuela says, eyes flitting to Dedue. "Someone deliver a message to Professor Byleth. Now, give me space. I need to tend to this young man."

Oh no. It's serious. It's definitely serious. Dedue, why? I'm to blame for all this. He took that blast to protect me. I didn't ask for that! I don't want this!

"Professor Manuela," I begin, wetting my newly parched lips. "He'll be fine, right? It's OK, right?"

Her hands glow, the yellow-white of healing magic. "I need to concentrate," she says without acknowledging me. "Hanneman, clear out the students."

He does as told, surely a sign of the gravity of Dedue's condition that Hanneman complies with any request from Manuela sans snark. Hanneman herds us away, each step magnifying my guilt. As soon as we're corralled and told to stay put, he leaves.

A sickly hush remains in his wake. Lysithea hangs her head, Hilda's palm on her back. I know she didn't intend to do the damage she did. Accidents happen. I am the real reason Dedue is lying over there with God knows what kinds of injuries.

Away from the main body of students, Dimitri paces. I excuse myself to join him. "I'm sorry, Dimitri," I say. It's an effort not to succumb to tears. "I'm so sorry. That should have been me."

He halts his pacing. When he meets my eyes, the coldness from earlier is gone, superseded by a deep sorrow. "Do not say such things. You have no idea what that means."

Dimitri matches my gaze for longer than I can bear. When I crumple and avert my eyes, he strides past.

I want to understand what I saw in his eyes. But I'm naive and weak, seeking absolution. Because I am afraid. Afraid that I won't get to thank Dedue. Afraid of what it means to belong in Fódlan.

Afraid to admit I _like_ the power I have here, and in that fleeting refrain I know beyond all doubt I will never again be that girl who looked out her Chicago apartment window and dreamed of record deals and music festivals.


End file.
